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THE ’PHONE BOOTH 
MYSTERY 


BY 

JOHN IRONSIDE 

AUTHOR OF 

**THB RED symbol,” “forged IN STRONG FIRES,” ETC 



NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1924 




AUTHORIZED EDITION 

First Printing, August, 1924 
Second Printing, October, 1924 


3 sri t. 0 ) 



PRINTED IN 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 




CONTENTS 


* 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. LADY RAWSON.I 

ii. “murder most foul!”. 8 

III. THE TAXICAB. 16 

IV. A BELATED BRIDEGROOM.21 

V. RETURNED!.- 34 

VI. “NO. 5339”.45 

VII. THE CIGARETTE CASE.54 

VIII. AT CACCIOLA’s. 64 

IX. BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM ...... 79 

X. GRACE LEARNS THE NEWS. 88 

XI. HALCYON DAYS. 98 

XII. ALONE. 109 

xiii. Austin’s theory. 12 1 

XIV. THE GIRL AT THE GRAVE.128 

xv. Austin’s silence. 138 

XVI. MADDELENA.150 

XVII. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM . . . . l 6 l 

XVIII. HARMONY—AND DISCORD.174 

XIX. DARK HOURS.1 88 

XX. AN OLD ROMANCE.197 

XXI. THE CHINESE ROOM.208 

XXII. A PEACEMAKER., . . 220 


V 






















VI 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


CHAPTER PASH 

XXIII. WHAT GIULIA SAW.231 

XXIV. THE SHADOW OF DOOM.244 

XXV. THE LAST HOPE.252 

XXVI. THE NINTH HOUR.262 

XXVII. INTO THE LIGHT.275 






THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 





CHAPTER I 


LADY RAWSON 


(4 


I 


’M extremely sorry, Carling. It’s too bad to 

keep you to-night, but-” 

“That’s all right, sir. Lucky they came 
in to-night and not to-morrow. I shall soon be 
through with them.” 

“It’s most awfully good of you,” rejoined Sir 
Robert Rawson heartily. “I would deal with them 
myself, but we are dining with Lord Warrington, 
as you know.” 

“Yes, sir; but it’s of no consequence really. I can 
spare the time perfectly well.” 

Already Carling’s sleek head was bent over the 
special dispatches which had just been delivered at 
the private residence of Sir Robert Rawson. There 
were two sets, written in different languages, but 
both referring to one subject—secret intelligence 
concerning the strained relations between two for¬ 
eign countries: a matter that at present was sus¬ 
pected rather than known, but that might at any 
moment develop on serious lines, and even occasion 
a war involving Great Powers. 

These particular papers were probably of im¬ 
mense importance. That remained to be seen; and 
Carling’s duty was to translate and prepare a precis 
of them for his chief. 


l 



2 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


They certainly had arrived at rather an awk¬ 
ward moment for the young secretary—on the eve 
of his six weeks’ holiday, which would include a 
honeymoon, for he was to be married on the 
morrow. 

“I don’t know what on earth I shall do without 
you, Roger,” Sir Robert remarked, casting a glance 
of mingled affection and compunction at the young 
man, whom he had learnt to regard as his right 
hand, and to whom he was sincerely attached, wish¬ 
ing with all his heart that he had a son like him; 
but he had married late in life and he and his wife 
were childless. 

She entered the room at this moment, and he ad¬ 
vanced to meet her with courtly apology. 

“Have I kept you waiting, Paula? Forgive me.” 

“It is no matter, we are in good time,” she an¬ 
swered in a voice so rich and soft that the words 
sounded like a caress, accompanied as they were by 
a smiling glance at her husband. “Why, is that 
poor Mr. Carling still at work? It is too bad of 
you, Robert, to detain him on this night of all 
others.” 

She spoke as though she had but just caught sight 
of the industrious secretary, yet as she entered the 
room she had seen him at once, and noted his 
occupation. 

She crossed to his side now in a graceful, leisurely 
manner that, to her husband’s admiring eyes, seemed 
perfectly natural. He did not perceive the keen 
glance she directed, not at the secretary, but at the 
papers over which he was poring. 

“It is too bad!” she repeated in her caressing 


LADY RAWSON 


3 


voice. “You should—what is the word?—ah, yes, 
you should strike, Mr. Carling.” 

Roger looked up and stumbled to his feet, thereby 
interposing himself as a screen between her and his 
writing-table. 

“Not at all, though it’s awfully kind of you to 
say so, Lady Rawson,” he murmured confusedly. 
“As I told Sir Robert, I had nothing particular to 
do this evening; Grace doesn’t expect me, and I’d 
rather finish up everything to the last moment.” 

“Is the work important?” She directed the ques¬ 
tion to her husband. 

“Yes, and we really must not hinder him. Good 
night, my boy. We shall see you to-morrow. 
You’ll put those papers in the safe as usual, of 
course. I’ll attend to them in the morning—or to¬ 
night, perhaps.” 

“Yes, sir. Good night. Good-bye, Lady Raw- 
son.” 

“Not good-bye; you forget that I also will come 
to the marriage,” she said graciously, giving him 
her hand. 

“We shall be honoured,” he murmured, as he 
bowed over the small gloved hand, with outward 
deference and inward aversion. 

He disliked and distrusted his chief’s lovely young 
wife—why he did not know, for her manner towards 
him had always been charming. It was a purely 
instinctive feeling which, naturally, he had carefully 
concealed, and of which he was not a little ashamed; 
but there it was. 

She was of foreign birth, but of what nationality 
no one seemed to know; a strikingly handsome young 


4 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


woman, whose marriage to the elderly financier had 
created a considerable sensation, for Sir Robert had 
long been considered a confirmed bachelor. Mali¬ 
cious tongues had predicted a speedy and scandalous 
dissolution of this union of May and December, 
but those predictions were as yet unfulfilled, for 
Lady Rawson’s conduct was irreproachable. She 
appeared as absolutely devoted to her husband as he 
was to her, and even the most inveterate and malig¬ 
nant gossip found no opportunity of assailing her 
fair fame. Yet, although immensely admired she 
was not popular. There was something *of the 
sphinx about her—a serene but impenetrable mys¬ 
tery. Roger Carling was by no means the only per¬ 
son who felt that strong aversion from her. 

He watched her now as, by her husband’s side, 
she recrossed the large room, moving with the lan¬ 
guid, sinuous grace peculiar to her. She looked 
royally beautiful to-night, in a diaphanous robe of 
vivid green and gold tissue, an emerald tiara poised 
proudly on her splendid, simply dressed black hair, 
a magnificent emerald collar scintillating on her 
white neck. 

She turned at the door and flashed a farewell 
smile at the young man, to which, as to Sir Robert’s 
genial nod, he responded with a bow. 

“What is there about her that always makes me 
think of a snake?” he asked himself as, with a sigh 
of genuine relief, he reseated himself at the writing- 
table. “And Grace feels just the same, though she 
has always been jolly nice to her. I wish she wasn’t 
coming to-morrow, but of course it can’t be helped. 
Wonder what took her to that unlikely place yester- 


LADY RAWSON 


5 


day, for I’ll swear it was she, though I’ve never seen 
her in that get-up before, but I’d know her walk 
anywhere. (However, it’s none of my business 
where she goes or what she does.” 

He addressed himself to his task again—an ab¬ 
sorbing one, for the papers contained startling and 
most valuable information, which should be com¬ 
municated to the Government with as little delay 
as possible. That was Sir Robert’s duty, of course. 

He finished at last, folded and arranged the 
papers in order, with his translation and notes on 
top, tied them with red tape, stuffed them into a 
blue, canvas-lined official envelope printed with Sir 
Robert’s address, sealed the package—quite a bulky 
one—and bestowed it in a small safe in the wall, 
cunningly concealed behind one of the oak panels. 
Only he and his chief knew the secret of the panel 
or possessed keys of the safe. 

“Thank goodness, that’s done,” he ejaculated, 
as he closed the panel, which slid noiselessly into 
place. “Ten o’clock, by Jove! Those fellows will 
think I’m never coming.” 

He was to spend the last night of his bachelor 
existence at Austin Starr’s chambers in Westminster, 
where a convivial supper-party awaited him. He 
had already telephoned that he would not arrive till 
late. 

In the hall he encountered Thomson, Sir Robert’s 
confidential man—a short, spare, reticent individual, 
who had grown grey in his master’s service. 

“Won’t you have some coffee, sir, or a whisky- 
and-soda,” he asked, as he helped Roger into his 
coat. 


6 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“No, thanks. Good night, Thomson, and good¬ 
bye. I shan’t be back for some weeks, you know.” 

“Good-bye, sir, and the best of good luck to you 
and the young lady.” 

The last words were an astonishing concession, 
for Thomson seldom uttered an unnecessary syllable 
—not even to his master. Roger was surprised 
and touched. 

“Good old Thomson!” he thought, as he hailed 
a passing taxi. “I suppose he actually approves 
of me after all, though I should never have guessed 
it! What a queer old stick he is.” 

He was greeted uproariously by the small as¬ 
semblage that awaited him at Austin Starr’s snug 
flat in Great Smith Street: Starr himself, a smart 
young American journalist, whom he had met when 
he was on service during the war, and with whom 
he had formed a friendship that seemed likely to 
prove permanent; George Winston, a Foreign Oflice 
clerk, who was to be his “best man” to-morrow; 
and some half-dozen others. 

Already he had dismissed from his mind every¬ 
thing connected with the task that had detained him, 
and never gave it another thought. But it was 
abruptly recalled to him the next morning when he 
was awakened by his host. 

“Real sorry to disturb you, Roger. Late? No, 
it’s quite bright and early, but they’ve rung you up 
from Grosvenor Gardens—Sir Robert himself.” 

“Sir Robert! What on earth can he want at 
this hour!” he exclaimed, springing out of bed and 
hurrying to the telephone. 

“Is that you, sir? . . . Those papers? They’re 


LADY RAWSON 


7 


in the safe. . . . Not there! But they must be. 
Sealed up in one of the blue envelopes. They can’t 
have been stolen—it’s impossible. . . . Yes, of 
course, sir, I’ll come up at once.” 


CHAPTER II 


“MURDER MOST FOUL!” 

44 If" WANT to telephone.” 

“Yes, madam. What number?” 

JL “I- Can’t I ring up for myself?” 

The momentary hesitation in speech caused the 
busy little postmistress to glance up at her customer 
—a lady of medium height and slender figure, well 
but quietly dressed. She wore a motor hat with 
a dark-blue veil which fell loosely over her face, 
shrouding her features; but Mrs. Cave judged her 
to be handsome, and guessed her elderly, for she 
saw the gleam of white hair. A nervous old lady, 
probably unused to telephoning. 

“No, madam. If you will just give me the num¬ 
ber I will tell you when you are connected. The 
booth is at the end of the shop.” 

The lady glanced in the direction indicated and 
again hesitated, standing at the railed-in post office 
counter and resting a fairly large morocco bag on 
it—a dressing or jewel bag—though she retained 
her grip of the handle with both hands. The right 
hand was ungloved and several valuable rings spar¬ 
kled on the delicate white fingers. 

“Oh, very well! No. 5339 Granton. How 
much?” she said at last, speaking in a low voice, 
with a slight but perceptible foreign accent. Re- 
8 


“MURDER MOST FOUL!” 


9 


moving her bejewelled hand from the bag, she 
fumbled in a chatelaine purse and produced a 
shilling. 

Mrs. Cave entered and applied for the call before 
she took the coin and dealt out the change. 

The bell tinkled, and at the same instant two 
other customers came into the shop. 

“You’re number, madam,” said Mrs. Cave, in¬ 
dicating the ’phone booth. “Your change.” 

But the lady was already on her way to the box, 
and, setting the change aside on the counter, the 
postmistress turned to serve the new-comers—a 
woman who wanted to draw ten shillings from the 
savings bank, a man and a child demanding stamps. 
As she attended to them briskly in turn, two more 
people entered and went to the stationery counter 
opposite. 

Mrs. Cave glanced at them apologetically; for¬ 
tunately she knew them both, but it really was trying 
that a rush should come just at this moment when 
she was single-handed. Her husband was out, her 
niece at dinner upstairs. 

“That’s your parcel, Mr. Laidlaw,” she called 
from behind her grating. “There, on the right. 
Jessie will be down to serve you in half a minute, 
Miss Ellis.” 

As she spoke she rang the bell to summon her 
niece, and also, as the telephone sounded the end of 
the call, she mechanically rang off. Other custom¬ 
ers came in, and for a few minutes she and Jessie 
were as busy as they could be, and only when the 
shop was clear again did she notice the change set 
aside for the telephone customer. 


10 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“There, that lady never asked for her change 
after all, and I didn’t see her go out either. I dare 
say she’ll be back for it directly. Did you finish 
your dinner, Jessie? No? Then you’d better run 
up and have it while there’s time.” 

Jessie Jackson, a nice-looking, fresh-complexioned 
girl, very like her capable little aunt, came from 
behind the news counter, and passed along to the 
door at the back leading to the house, close by 
and at right angles to that of the telephone booth; 
a dark corner on this dull, foggy November day. 

“There’s something wet here!” she exclaimed. 
“Somebody must have been spilling some water.” 

She reached for an electric switch and turned 
on the light. 

An instant later Mrs. Cave heard a shriek that 
brought her rushing out of the post office, to find 
the girl leaning back against the doorpost, her face 
blanched, her dilated eyes staring at the horrible 
pool in which she was standing—a pool of blood, 
forming from a stream that trickled over the sill of 
the telephone booth, the door of which was partly 
open. 

“My God! What’s happened?” cried Mrs. 
Cave. “.Here, pull yourself together, girl, and get 
out of the way.” 

Clutching Jessie’s arm she hauled her aside and 
pulled open the door. Something lurched forward 
—a heap surmounted by a blue veil. 

“It’s her, the lady herself; she—she must have 
broken a blood vessel—or something,” she gasped, 
bending down and trying to lift the huddled figure, 
for she was a clever and resourceful little woman, 


MURDER MOST FOUL!” 


11 


and as yet no suspicion of the ghastly truth had 
flashed to her mind. “Run, Jessie—run and call 
someone—anyone.” 

But Jessie had collapsed on a chair by the counter, 
sobbing and shaking, half-fainting, and it was her 
aunt whose screams summoned the neighbours and 
passers-by. The greengrocer from the opposite 
corner shop was first on the scene, wiping his mouth 
as he ran, for he too had been disturbed at dinner. 
In less than a minute the shop was filled to over¬ 
flowing, and a crowd had gathered outside, through 
which a belated policeman shouldered his way. 

“ ’Ere, make way there! Stand back, will you? 
What’s up ’ere?” he began with pompous authority. 
“Good Lord! Why, it’s murder!” 

“It can’t be—how can it?” sobbed poor Mrs. 
Cave, whose nerve had given way at last. “Why, 
there wasn’t a soul anywhere near her!” 

“Do you know who she is?” demanded the of¬ 
ficer, bending over the corpse, but not touching it. 
The woman was dead, not a doubt of that. It was 
best to leave her as she was till the doctor arrived. 

A ghastly object she looked lying huddled there, 
her head still shrouded in the blue motor veil, now 
horribly drenched and bedabbled. It had been flung 
back from her face—probably she had raised it 
herself when she entered the booth a few short 
minutes before—and her naturally handsome 
features were distorted to an expression of fear and 
horror, the dark eyes half open, the lips drawn back 
showing the white, even teeth. There was no 
doubt as to the cause of death, for under her left 
ear was plainly visible the still-welling wound—a 


12 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


clean stab less than half an inch broad that had com¬ 
pletely severed the jugular vein. 

“I never saw her before,” cried Mrs. Cave, 
wringing her hands helplessly. “She just came in 
to telephone, and when she went into the booth sev¬ 
eral people came in and we were busy for a few 
minutes, and I never thought a word about her till 
we found her—Jessie and I—like that! She must 
have done it herself—and in our shop, too! Oh, 
whatever shall we do!” 

At the moment the obvious thing to be done was 
to clear the shop and summon the local doctor and 
the district police inspector, who arrived simultane¬ 
ously a few minutes later. 

The woman had been murdered, not a doubt of 
that, for it was impossible that such a wound could 
have been self-inflicted. It was extraordinarily 
deep, penetrating nearly three inches, and causing 
practically instantaneous death; while no weapon 
whatever was discovered nor anything that, at the 
moment, disclosed the identity of the victim. 

One fact was established at once: that she had 
been partially disguised, for the white hair which 
Mrs. Cave had noticed proved to be a wig—what 
hairdressers describe as a “transformation”—ad¬ 
justed over the natural hair, silky, luxuriant dark 
tresses closely coiled about the shapely head. Her 
age was judged by the doctor to be about five-and- 
twenty, and she was a fine and handsome young 
woman, presumably wealthy also. Certainly her 
white, well-shaped, beautifully kept hands had had 
no acquaintance with work of any kind, and the 
rings on the slender fingers were extremely valuable, 


MURDER MOST FOUL!” 


13 


among them a wedding ring. On the floor of the 
booth was found her gold purse, containing a sum 
of four pounds odd in notes and silver. 

But of the murderer there was no trace what¬ 
ever, except, indeed, a wet and bloodstained dish¬ 
cloth lying in the sink of a little scullery place be¬ 
hind the shop. The house was originally a private 
one, and the whole of the ground floor had been 
converted into business premises. The Cave’s 
kitchen and living-room were on the first floor, the 
stairs going up just inside the door leading into the 
shop at the back, beside the telephone booth. At 
the foot of the staircase was a private door opening 
on to a side street, and beyond it the scullery and a 
fairly long garden, with a door at the end through 
which also the side street could be gained. This 
door had bolts top and bottom, but they were now 
drawn back, though the door itself was closed. 

“Is this door always kept open like this?” asked 
the inspector of little Mrs. Cave, who, though still 
piteously agitated, followed him and managed to 
answer his many questions promptly and intelligibly. 

“No, it’s never unbolted except when the dustmen 
come, and I bolted it myself after them yesterday.” 

The inspector nodded, and jotted a line in his 
notebook. Stepping out into the street, he glanced 
up and down. It was a particularly quiet and re¬ 
spectable little street, the upper end flanked by the 
walls of the gardens belonging to the two corner 
houses, the lower by small suburban villas, each with 
its tiny garden in front: a street where usually at 
this time of day the only passers-by were children 
returning to school, but where already a big and in- 


14 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


creasing crowd was assembled at the corner by the 
Cave’s shop and house. 

“There’s the inspector; you just come along and 
tell him what you saw, Margie,” cried a woman, 
who thereupon ran towards him, dragging a pretty 
little girl by the hand. “Please, sir, my Margie 
saw a man come out of the side door and run away 
just before the screaming began.” 

“What’s that? Come, tell me all about it, my 
dear. Quick, where did he come from? This 
door?” 

“No, sir—that,” said the child promptly, point¬ 
ing to the house door. “Mother sent me for a 
lemon, and-” 

“What was he like?” 

“One of them shovers, sir, that drives the taxis. 
He was saying swear words, and run ever so fast 
down the street.” Again she pointed. 

“Did you see his cab—a taxicab?” 

“No, there wasn’t only me and the man.” 

“Should you know him again?” 

“Yes, sir, I think so.” 

“Good girl! What’s your name? Margery 
Davies—at number six? That’s right.” 

With a kindly nod, leaving Margie and her 
mother to be surrounded and questioned by the ex¬ 
cited crowd that had followed them and listened to 
the brief colloquy—he entered the garden, just in 
time to encounter Jessie Jackson, who stumbled 
against him, and would have fallen if he had not 
shot out a ready arm to support her. 

“Hallo! Who’s this young woman, and what’s 
the matter with her?” he demanded, lowering her 



MURDER MOST FOUL!” 


15 


to the ground, gently enough, and scrutinizing her 
face—a pretty, innocent-looking young face, deadly 
pale at this moment, for the girl had fainted. 

“It’s Jessie, my niece, that found the poor thing, 
as I told you. It’s upset her—no wonder. Why, 
Jessie, dear,” cried Mrs. Cave, incoherently, kneel¬ 
ing beside her and frantically chafing her limp hands. 

“I must see her presently, when you’ve got her 
round,” said the inspector, and returned to the 
house. 


CHAPTER III 


THE TAXICAB 

A CURIOUS hush brooded over the shop, 
closed by order of the inspector. Even 
the post office business must be suspended 
for the present. 

On the floor between the counters was a long 
object covered by a coloured tablecloth—the corpse 
of the murdered woman, with limbs decently 
straightened now. Beside it, on a shop chair, sat 
the doctor, grave and silent, awaiting the arrival of 
the ambulance which would convey the body to the 
mortuary, there to await identification. 

Outside the glass doors two constables were 
stationed, monotonously requesting the crowd to 
“pass along there”; and behind the post office 
counter was a third, who turned to his superior. 

“I’ve rung up 5339 Granton, sir, and-” 

“Half a minute,” said the inspector, going to 
the telephone and giving instructions to the station, 
that instituted an immediate search for a fugitive 
taxicab driver—one who presumably belonged to 
and was familiar with the neighbourhood. 

“Well, what about 5339?” 

“They say that they were rung up, sir, just about 
the time—one thirty-five—but nobody spoke, and 
they supposed it must have been a wrong call as 
they were rung off again immediately.” 

16 



THE TAXICAB 


17 


“Who are they?” 

“A flat in Lely Mansions, Chelsea, sir, name of 
Winston; it was a maid servant spoke, but the 
name’s all right—Mr. George Winston. I’ve 
looked it up in the Directory.” 

A slight commotion was heard from the back, 
Mrs. Cave was helping her niece up the stairs, and 
Inspector Evans promptly followed to the kitchen 
over the back shop, which was also the living-room, 
with the remains of dinner on the table, including 
a plate with a mutton chop and potatoes, untouched. 

The girl had only partially recovered, and was 
trembling and sobbing. As the inspector appeared 
in the doorway she uttered a moan as of fear, and 
really looked as if she was about to faint again. 

“Come, come, this won’t do,” he said, cheeringly 
and encouragingly. “Pull yourself together, missie. 
Have you got a drop of brandy to give her, Mrs. 
Cave? It’s what she wants.” 

“There’s some in my cupboard upstairs, in case 
of illness. There, sit down, dearie, while I run 
and fetch it.” 

Little Mrs. Cave hurried away, and the girl eyed 
her companion shrinkingly, but to her momentary 
relief he sa^ nothing—merely glanced round the 
room in a seemingly casual manner. In half a 
minute her aunt fluttered back, bringing a small flat 
bottle half filled with brandy. 

“Give it her neat, ma’am. There, that’s better; 
it’s been an upsetting time for you both, eh?” 

“That it has!” Mrs. Cave assented vehemently. 
“I can’t believe it even now, and never shall I forget 
it. I don’t wonder the child nearly died of fright. 


18 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


And—why, Jessie, dear, why ever hadn’t you eaten 
your dinner?” 

“I was just going to—when you rang—and— 
and-” 

The mumbling words broke off and Jessie hid 
her face in her hands. 

“You didn’t feel to want your dinner then?” 

The inspector’s voice was mild but insistent. 

“Or you hadn’t time to begin—was that it?” 

“But you came up ever so long before. I left 
it all ready for you; we haven’t got a servant just 
now, you see, only a girl that comes in mornings,” 
Mrs. Cave interposed flustered, perplexed, and 
explanatory. 

“Who was here talking to you, so that you for¬ 
got to eat your dinner?” 

That question was blunt and sharp enough, 
and Mrs. Cave stared in incredulous astonishment 
and dismay from the inspector to Jessie. 

“Come, answer me, missie!” 

The girl looked up at that, and the wild fear in 
her eyes rendered his suspicion a certainty. 

“There wasn’t anyone here,” she muttered. 

“Then what’s this?” It was a half-smoked ciga¬ 
rette, that he picked up from a used plate at the 
other side of the table—the plate from which Mrs. 
Cave had eaten her pudding an hour before. “Do 
either of you ladies smoke Woodbines?” 

“Smoke? I should think not!” cried Mrs. Cave. 
“Jessie, Jessie—oh, what does it all mean?” 

The girl started to her feet, her eyes glaring, a 
spot of colour flashing into each pallid cheek. 

“I don’t know. I tell you there wasn’t anyone 



THE TAXICAB 


19 


here. I’ll swear it! What do you want to goad 
me like this for? I won’t answer another question 
—so there!” she vociferated hysterically. “I never 
murdered her. I never knew or thought a thing 
about it all till I saw—I saw-” 

Her fictitious strength departed, and she sank 
down again, wailing like a distraught creature. 

“You’ll have to answer questions at the inquest 
to-morrow, my girl, and you’ll be on your oath 
then,” said Evans, stowing the cigarette in the 
pocket of his notebook as he retreated. He knew 
she was concealing something, but recognized that 
it was impossible to get any information out of her 
at the moment, while there were many other matters 
that claimed his immediate attention. 

The ambulance had arrived, together with several 
more police constables, and a taxicab had drawn 
up by the curb. From it an alert-looking, clean- 
shaved young man alighted, and, pushing his way 
authoritatively through the crowd, began inter¬ 
rogating the men on guard at the door. 

Evans saw him through the glass, recognized an 
acquaintance, and himself opened the door. 

“Come in, Mr. Starr; might have known you’d 
be turning up, though how you got wind of it so 
soon beats me. Vultures aren’t in it with you news¬ 
paper gents!” 

“Pure chance this time. I was on my way to a 
wedding and saw the crowd,” said Austin Starr. 
“You’ll give me the facts as far as they go? Is that 
—it?” 

Evans nodded. 

“A lady; we don’t know yet who she is.” 



20 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


At a sign from him the doctor bent, and with a 
quiet reverent touch uncovered the face. Starr 
looked down at it, and started uncontrollably. 

“Great Scott!” he ejaculated, in an awestruck 
whisper. 

“You know her?” 

“I’ve seen her a good few times. She’s Lady 
Rawson—Sir Robert Rawson’s wife.” 

“Lady Rawson!” 

“That’s so; and I’m plumb certain she was to 
have been at this very wedding to-day, and Sir 
Ralph, too!” 

“What wedding’s that?” 

“Sir Robert’s secretary, Roger Carling. We’re 
old friends; he slept at my place last night, and he’s 
marrying Miss Armitage at St. Paul’s Church near 
here. But that’s no matter. Give me the story 
right now, please.” 

A story that, a few minutes later, was augmented 
by the startling news that the taxicab for which the 
police were on the look out had already been traced, 
and under singular circumstances. Recklessly 
driven, it had come to grief at the Broadway, a mile 
or so distant, by colliding with a motor van; with 
the result that the cab was smashed, the driver— 
identified as Charles Sadler, No. C417—badly in¬ 
jured, while within the vehicle was found Lady Raw- 
son’s bag, which had been cut open by some sharp 
instrument and was quite empty. 


CHAPTER IV 


A BELATED BRIDEGROOM 

W HILE the tragic commotion in the High 
Road was at its height a very different 
scene was being enacted at the fine old 
riverside church three-quarters of a mile away. A 
smart wedding is a rare event in the suburbs, and, 
despite the gloomy weather conditions—for a thick 
fog hung over the river and was now rapidly ex¬ 
tending inland—an interested crowd assembled out¬ 
side, watching the arrival of the many guests, dimly 
seen through the thickening murk, while along the 
Mall was a line of carriages and motors, looking 
like a file of fiery-eyed monsters, when the rapidly 
increasing darkness necessitated the lighting of their 
head-lamps. 

The bevy of bridesmaids waited in the porch, 
chief among them Winnie Winston, a tall, hand¬ 
some girl, with frank, laughing blue eyes. She alone 
of the little group appeared undaunted by the sin¬ 
ister gloom. 

“For goodness’ sake, don’t look so lugubrious, 
girls!” she counselled, in a laughing undertone. 
“It’s too bad of the fog to come just now—after 
such a lovely morning too!—-but it can’t be helped, 
and-” 

She turned as someone touched her arm—her 
21 



22 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


brother George, who was “best man” to-day, and 
even her high spirits were checked by his worried 
expression. 

“I say, Win, Roger hasn’t turned up yet. What 
on earth’s to be done?” 

“Not turned up! Why, where is he? Haven’t 
you been with him?” 

“No. When I got to Starr’s rooms he wasn’t 
there. He left a message that Sir Robert had 
’phoned for him, and if he didn’t get back by one 
o’clock he’d come straight on to the church, but he’s 
not here.” 

“Perhaps there’s a fog in Town too,” she sug¬ 
gested, with a backward glance at the Rembrandt- 
esque scene outside, where the shaft of light from 
the open door shone weirdly on the watching faces. 
“He’ll come directly—he must! Where’s Mr. 
Starr?” 

“Haven’t seen him.” 

“Then they’re probably together, or he may be 
coming on with Sir Robert and Lady Rawson. 
They’re not here yet, are they? What on earth 
can Sir Robert have wanted him for this morning? 
Horribly inconsiderate of him! Goodness, here’s 
Grace! Have you told the vicar that Roger hasn’t 
come? Then you’d better do so.” 

She resumed her place as the bride advanced on 
her father’s arm, looking like a white ghost in her 
gleaming satin robe, with the filmy veil shrouding 
her bent head and her fair face. 

“What’s the matter?” whispered the second 
brides maid. 

“Nothing. S—sh!” answered Winnie, and 


A BELATED BRIDEGROOM 


23 


breathed a silent thanksgiving as the choir struck 
up the hymn and began slowly to advance up the 
aisle, the bridal procession following. But her heart 
sank as she saw her brother hurry along the south 
aisle and out at the side door, evidently in the hope 
of meeting the tardy bridegroom. 

Where could he be? And why hadn’t Austin 
Starr arrived? Not that Starr’s absence was any¬ 
thing extraordinary, for his exacting profession ren¬ 
dered him a socially erratic being. It was for that 
very reason that he had refused to fill the office of 
best man. 

The hymn came to an end, the choir stood in 
their stalls, the bridal party halted at the chancel 
and there was a horrible pause, punctuated by the 
uneasy whispers exchanged by the guests. 

The vicar came forward at length and proposed 
an adjournment to the vestry. He was no ordinary 
cleric, but a man with a fine, forceful, and magnetic 
personality, endowed, moreover, with consummate 
tact and good feeling; in brief, the Reverend Joseph 
Iverson was—and is—a Christian and gentleman 
in every sense of those often misused words. 

“We can wait more comfortably in here,” he 
announced cheerily, as he brought forward a rush- 
bottomed chair for the bride, and in fatherly fashion, 
with a compelling hand on her shoulder, placed her 
in it. 

“There, sit you down, and don’t be distressed, 
my dear child. I’m quite sure there’s no cause for 
alarm. Anyone—even a bridegroom—may be ex¬ 
cused for losing his way in such a fog as this that 
has descended upon us. That’s the explanation 


24 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


of his absence, depend upon it. And he will arrive 
in another minute or two—in a considerable fluster, 
I’ll be bound, poor lad!” 

His genial laugh reassured the others, who stood 
round, awkward, anxious, and embarrassed, as peo¬ 
ple naturally are at such a moment; but Grace 
looked up at him with a glance so tragic that it 
startled and distressed him. 

He had known her ever since she was a little 
child, and never had he thought to see such an 
expression in her gentle grey eyes. 

“It’s not that—not the fog,” she whispered, so 
low that he had to bend his head to catch the words. 
“Something terrible has happened; I feel it—I’m 
certain of it!” 

Winnie Winston, standing close beside her, over¬ 
heard the whisper. Her eyes met the vicar’s in 
mutual interrogation, perplexity, and dismay, and 
the same thought flashed through both their minds. 
Grace knew something, feared something; but 
what? 

“Nonsense!” he responded. “You are nervous 
and upset—that’s only natural; but you mustn’t start 
imagining all sorts of things, for-” 

“Here he is!” exclaimed Winnie in accents of 
fervent relief, as Roger, attended by George Wins¬ 
ton, hurried into the vestry, hot and agitated, look¬ 
ing very unlike a bridegroom, especially as he was 
still wearing his ordinary morning suit. 

He had eyes and speech only for his bride. 

“Grace! Forgive me, darling! I couldn’t help 
it really. Sir Robert kept me, and then I couldn’t 
get a cab, and had to walk from—from the station.” 



A BELATED BRIDEGROOM 


25 


She did not notice the momentary hesitation that 
marked the last words, though she remembered it 
afterwards. “I lost my way in the fog and thought 
I should never get here in time!” 

“Just as I said!” remarked the vicar trium¬ 
phantly. “Come along now, we’ve no time to lose.” 

He led the way, a stately self-possessed figure, 
and the delayed service proceeded. 

“Oh, Roger, I was so frightened!” Grace con¬ 
fided to her bridegroom as they drove slowly back 
through the gloom to her father’s house. “I felt 
sure something dreadful had happened to you; and 
the fog coming on like this too! It—it seems so 
unlucky, so sinister!” 

She shivered, and he clasped her more closely, 
with masculine indifference to the danger of crum¬ 
pling her finery. 

“Cheer up, darling, it’s all right. We shall soon 
be out of the fog and into the sunshine,” he laughed. 
“And the fog wasn’t the. chief cause of delay, after 
all. I should have got to the church before it came 
on if I hadn’t had to go to Sir Robert. I was 
awfully upset about it, but it couldn’t be helped.” 

“Why, is anything wrong?” 

“Afraid so. Some important papers have dis¬ 
appeared. I put them in the safe myself last night; 
the Rawsons were dining out and I stayed rather 
late, over these very papers. When Sir Robert 
went to get them this morning they were gone, 
though there was nothing to show that the safe had 
been tampered with; in fact, it hadn’t. It’s a most 
mysterious thing!” 

He tried to speak lightly, but her sensitive ears 


26 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


caught the note of anxiety in his voice, and that 
queer sense of foreboding assailed her afresh. 

“Oh, Roger, have they been found?” 

“They hadn’t when I came away soon after 
twelve.” 

“Then—then what will happen? Were they 
very important?” 

“Very,” he replied, ignoring the first question, 
which was really unanswerable. “However, it’s no 
use worrying about them, darling; if they should 
have turned up Sir Robert is sure to come or tele¬ 
phone. Here we are!” 

There was no time to spare for further thought 
or conjecture concerning the mystery of the missing 
papers until, an hour and a half later, they were 
on their way to Victoria, whirling rapidly along 
in a taxi, for the fog had lifted. 

They had none too much time to get the train 
to Dover, where they intended to stay the night 
at the “Lord Warden” and cross to Calais next 
day, en route for Paris and the Riviera. 

“The Rawsons didn’t come after all,” Grace re¬ 
marked. “Mother was so disappointed, poor dear, 
for she had been telling every one about them, and 
then they never turned up! I’m not sorry though 
•—at least about Lady Rawson. I don’t know what 
there is about her that always makes me think of a 
snake. That sounds very ungrateful when she gave 
me these lovely furs”—she glanced down at the 
costly chinchilla wrap and muff she wore, which had 
been Lady Rawson’s wedding gift—“but really I 
can’t help it.” 

“Same here! And it really is curious considering 


A BELATED BRIDEGROOM 


27 


she’s always been so jolly decent to us both. I 
wonder-” 

He broke off, knitting his brows perplexedly, and 
as if in response to his unspoken thought Grace 
exclaimed: 

“Roger, do you think she could have had any¬ 
thing to do with those missing papers?” 

He glanced at her in astonishment. 

“What makes you ask that, darling?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure. It just flashed into 
my mind. But do you think so? Sir Robert 
didn’t ’phone to you, did he?” 

“No. And I don’t know what to think about 
Lady Rawson. Oh, bother the papers; let’s forget 
all about them—for to-day, anyhow! I say, be¬ 
loved, it doesn’t seem possible that we’re really 
married and off on our honeymoon, does it?” 

She laughed, softly and shyly, and again the 
shadow fled for a time. What did anything matter 
save the fact that they were together, with all the 
world before them? 

“Why don’t you smoke?” she asked presently. 
“I’m sure you’re dying for a cigarette, you poor 
boy; and I don’t believe you had anything to eat 
at the house—it was all such a fluster. We’ll have 
tea in the train, if George Winston has the sense to 
order a tea-basket for us.” 

“Trust old George for that,” laughed Roger, 
feeling in one pocket after the other. “He never 
forgets anything. Now, where on earth is that 
cigarette case?” 

“Did you have it this morning?” 

“Of course I did. It’s the one you gave me 



28 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


at Christmas; I’ve never been without it since.” 

“Perhaps it’s in your other suit,” she suggested; 
“the clothes you were to have worn.” 

“No, it’s not, for I had it all right this morning; 
but I haven’t got it now, that’s certain!” 

His face and manner expressed more concern than 
mere loss of a cigarette case would seem to warrant, 
even though it was one of her gifts to him. 

“Never mind. I dare say it will turn up; and 
perhaps you’ll have time to get some at Victoria. 
We’re nearly there. Why, Roger, what’s the 
matter?” 

The cab had halted by the station entrance in 
Wilton Road, waiting its turn to enter, and Roger, 
still fumbling in his pockets in the futile search for 
the cigarette case, suddenly leaned forward and 
stared out of the window, uttering a quick exclama¬ 
tion as of surprise and horror. 

There was the usual bustling throng passing in 
and out of the station, and on the curb stood a 
newsboy vociferating monotonously, 

“ ’Orrible murder of a Society lady; pyper— 
speshul.” 

“What is it, Roger? Oh, what is it?” cried 
Grace, leaning forward in her turn and craning 
her pretty neck. The newsboy turned aside at that 
instant, and she did not see the placard he was ex¬ 
hibiting, but Roger had seen it: 


LADY 

RAWSON 

MURDERED! 


A BELATED BRIDEGROOM 


29 


The great black letters seemed to hit him in the 
face. He felt for a moment as if he had received a 
physical and stunning blow. 

“What is it?” Grace repeated, as the cab glided 
on. 

“What? Oh, nothing at all, dear. I thought 
I saw someone I knew,” he muttered confusedly. 
But his face was ghastly, and little beads of sweat 
started out on his forehead. 

“Here’s George!” he added, and Winston, who 
had gone on with the luggage, opened the door of 
the taxi. He also looked worried and flustered, 
though perhaps that was only natural since he 
greeted them with: 

“Here you are at last! I thought you were going 
to miss the train. We’ve only a bare minute, but 
the luggage is in all right, and I’ve reserved a com¬ 
partment. Come on.” 

He hustled them on to the platform, and as 
Grace, bewildered and disturbed, entered the car¬ 
riage, he detained Roger, ostensibly for the purpose 
of handing him the tickets. 

“I say, have you heard the news—about Lady 
Rawson?” 

“I saw a placard a moment ago, and I can’t 
credit it.” 

“It’s true enough, I’m afraid. Awful, isn’t it? 
So mysterious too, and within a mile of the church 
where you were married—that makes it all the more 
horrible. Here’s a paper; don’t let Grace see it 
though; keep the whole thing from her as long as 
you can. It will upset-” 

“Going on, sir? Step in, please.” 



30 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


At the guard’s admonition Roger sprang in, the 
door was slammed, the whistle sounded, and as the 
train glided away George Winston ran alongside, 
waving his hat and shouting with an excellent as¬ 
sumption of gaiety. 

“Good-bye, Grace—good-bye, old man. Good 
luck to you both.” 

Roger leaned out of the window and nodded as 
if in responsive farewell, an action that gave him 
a few seconds in which to regain his self-possession 
and marshal his distracted thoughts. 

George was right. The knowledge of the trag¬ 
edy that necessarily would affect them both so 
strongly must be kept from Grace as long as pos¬ 
sible. That it should have occurred on their wed¬ 
ding day, and that the victim should have been the 
woman who was to have been the principal wedding 
guest seemed monstrous, incredible. Yet it was 
true ! Hastily he stuffed the evening paper Winston 
had given him into his pocket. If he had kept it 
in his hand he could not have resisted the impulse to 
read the fatal news, and he dare not trust himself 
to do that at present. Grace’s voice, with a new, 
nervous note in it, roused him to the necessity of 
facing the situation. 

“Roger! Do take care, dear. You’ll lose your 
hat or-” 

“Or my head? Mustn’t lose that, or it will be 
all up with me, considering that I lost my heart 
ages ago!” 

He laughed as he settled himself in the seat op¬ 
posite her, but he did not meet her eyes, dark with 



A BELATED BRIDEGROOM 


31 


trouble and perplexity. She loved him with all the 
strength of her nature—a nature essentially sweet 
and pure and steadfast. She thought she under¬ 
stood his every mood; but now, on this supreme 
day that linked her life to his once and for all, 
his manner was so strange that her heart failed 
her. 

His restless gaze lighted on a tea-basket and a 
pile of periodicals ranged on the cushions beside 
her. 

“Hallo! So he thought of the tea after all. 
Good old George ! Let’s have it, shall we, darling?” 

He talked gaily, irresponsibly, as they drank 
their tea but she was not deceived—was more than 
ever certain that he was concealing something from 
her, though what it might be she could not imagine. 

Presently she leant back in her corner and closed 
her eyes, but after an interval of silence she glanced 
up. Roger’s face was concealed behind a news¬ 
paper, which he appeared to be studying intently. 

“Any news?” she asked. “I don’t believe I’ve 
looked at a paper for days.” 

He did not lower the sheet immediately, and she 
noticed, half mechanically, that his grip on it 
tightened. She recalled later, as one does recall 
such trifles when circumstances have invested them 
with special significance, the little convulsive move¬ 
ment of his hands—fine, characteristic hands they 
were, strong and nervous. 

“Nothing of any consequence; these rags are all 
alike,” he answered, as he tossed the paper out of 
the open window and moved impetuously to her 


32 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


side. “Grace! My own—my very own at last, 
there’s nothing in the world matters to you and 
me to-day except ourselves!” 

He caught and held her in his embrace with a 
passion that increased her vague fears, for hitherto 
he had never been a demonstrative lover, devoted 
though they were to each other. 

He kissed her lips, her eyes, her soft white throat, 
fiercely, hungrily. 

“Roger, Roger, don’t; you—you frighten me!” 
she gasped, weak and breathless. “Oh-” 

Her head drooped limply on to his shoulder. 
For a moment he thought she had actually fainted, 
and the shock restored his self-control. 

“Forgive me, sweetheart!” he cried with quick 
compunction. “I must have been mad to upset you 
so. It’s been an upsetting sort of day, hasn’t it? 
But it’s all right now, really!” 

He was holding her now firmly, tenderly, pro¬ 
tectively, master of himself once more; and she 
nestled against him, revived and reassured. He 
was her own Roger again—the man whom she loved 
and trusted. 

“It was silly of me,” she confessed, smiling up 
at him—an April smile, for the tears had risen to 
her sweet grey eyes. “And you’re right, dear; it 
has been an upsetting day, with the fog, and Sir 
Robert detaining you, and—and everything else. 
And you’re still worrying about those missing 
papers. I know you are, though you’re trying to 
pretend you’re not! Perhaps you think I might 
be—oh, I don’t know how to put it—jealous. No, 
that’s not the word I want. That you’re afraid I 



A BELATED BRIDEGROOM 


33 


might be vexed because you could think of anything 
in the world except me, on this day, of all the days 
in our life! But it’s not so, Roger—really it isn’t! 
I want to share your troubles—I mean to share 
them. I—I’m your wife.” 

Too deeply moved for words he held her to his 
heart, and again their lips met, though this time 
the kiss was reverent as a sacrament. 


CIIAPTI R V 


Ki l l IKNI l>! 



Oil arc certain no one but yourself ami 
Mr. Carling possesses a key to the safe, 


X Sir Robert?" 

“Absolutely.” 

“Ami you think it impossible that anyone may 
have obtained either of the keys and had a duplicate 
made." 

“No copy has been made," Sir Robert answered. 
“'The pattern is unique, it could not be reproduced 
except by the makers, and 1 telephoned to them this 
morning. In any case they would not have made 
another key except from my personal instructions.” 


Snell, the detective, who had been summoned to 
(iroavenor Gardens on that eventful afternoon, 
stood thought fully sliding the secret panel to and 
fro. 

“You are sure no one could have access to either 
of the existing keys in the course of the night, or 
early this morning?" 

“Quite sure. Carling declares that his was never 
out of his possession for an instant till he handed it 
to me just now, and 1 put it on the ring with my 


own. 


Sir Robert pulled the keys, attached to a strong 


M 


RETURNED! 


35 


steel chain, out of his trousers pocket, and slipped 
them back again. 

“Just so. I’d like to have seen Mr. Carling, but 
of course he had to go; a man doesn’t get married 
every day. Where do you keep your own keys at 
night, Sir Robert?” 

“Under my pillow. It is quite impossible that 
anyone can have obtained possession of them with¬ 
out my knowledge.” 

“Yet the papers disappeared,” remarked the de¬ 
tective dryly. “Well, will you give me a description 
of them, Sir Robert? You say they were secret 
dispatches; were they in cipher?” 

“One was; it was in French, and would be quite 
unintelligible to anyone who did not possess the key 
to the code used. Mr. Carling’s report on them 
both was also written in our private cipher, which 
only he and I understand.” 

“Have you a key to that cipher?” 

“Only in our heads; Carling invented it, and we 
memorized it.” 

“How about the French code? Was that 
memorized also?” 

“By ourselves, yes; at least we are so familiar 
with it that we never need to consult the code. It’s 
in the drawer of the safe.” 

“That has not been stolen, then?” 

“No. The theft of the French paper and of 
Carling’s report really does not matter much, for 
practically it would be impossible for any outside 
person to decipher them; but the other, which is by 
far the most important, was not in cipher, unfor¬ 
tunately.” 


36 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“What language was it in?” 

“Russian.” 

Snell glanced up quickly, as the thought flashed to 
his mind that Lady Rawson was herself said to be 
Russian by birth. Sir Robert did not meet his eyes. 
He appeared to be regarding an ivory paper-knife 
that he was fingering. His face was drawn and 
haggard; he seemed to have aged by ten years in 
the course of the last few hours, yet he was per¬ 
fectly self-possessed. 

“Whom do you suspect, Sir Robert?” 

The blunt, point-blank question would have 
startled any ordinary man into an admission—even 
by an unguarded gesture—that he was concealing 
something. But Sir Robert Rawson’s face betrayed 
nothing, and he continued to play with the paper- 
knife as he replied: 

“If I had any reason to suspect anyone, I should 
have told you at once, Mr. Snell. The whole affair 
is a mystery to me.” 

“They were in the safe last night?” 

“I cannot say. As a matter of fact, I meant to 
have dealt with them last night, but when we re¬ 
turned—Lady Rawson and I were at a dinner party 
—I felt extremely tired and went straight to bed. 
When I found the papers were missing this morning 
I was not especially alarmed at the moment; I 
imagined they had proved to be of little conse¬ 
quence, and that perhaps Carling had taken them 
with him to finish later. It was only when I rang 
him up on the telephone, and he came round, that I 
realized how serious the matter was, and even then 


RETURNED! 


37 


I thought it possible that he might have merely mis¬ 
laid them.” 

“Who besides yourself and Mr. Carling knew of 
the existence and importance of the papers, and that 
they were in the house?” 

“Not a soul I” Sir Robert’s tone was absolutely 
emphatic. 

“Not to your knowledge perhaps, Sir Robert; but 
someone must certainly have known. Did anyone 
come into the room while Mr. Carling was engaged 
on them last night?” 

“No one at all after I left.” 

“He told you so?” 

“Yes, and Thomson, my confidential servant, con¬ 
firmed that.” 

“Does Thomson know of the loss of the papers?” 

“Yes. He is the only one of the servants who 
does know at present, though the others were ques¬ 
tioned—all who were in and out of the room either 
last night or this morning. Although Carling was 
positive he placed the papers in the safe, I thought 
it possible he might have been mistaken, and that 
he left them on the table.” 

“Has he ever made such a mistake before?” 

The ghost of a smile flitted across Sir Robert’s 
stern face. 

“No, but there would have been considerable ex¬ 
cuse if he had been guilty of such carelessness last 
night. However, he declares that he did put them 
away, in the same envelope in which they were sent 
to me—an official one, printed with my name and 
address. He sealed it.” 


38 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“About the servants. Are there any foreigners 
among them?” 

“Two only, I believe, both French: the chef and 
Lady Rawson’s maid.” 

“I will see them all in turn, beginning with 
Thomson. May I ring?” 

He put one or two questions to the footman who 
answered the summons before sending him in search 
of the valet. 

“Who was on duty in the hall last night?” 

“I was, sir—till ten, when I went to supper.” 

“Were there any callers?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Mr. Carling was in this room the whole time?” 

“I suppose so, sir. I never saw him come out.” 

“Did anyone enter the room while Mr. Carling 
was there?” 

“No, sir, only Sir Robert and my lady.” 

“Who relieved you when you went off duty?” 

“Mr. Thomson was in the hall, sir; he was going 
to wait up for Sir Robert and my lady. Mr. 
Jenkins, the butler, and some of the others had the 
evening off, as the family dined out.” 

“Just so. Will you send Mr. Thomson here?” 

In the interval Snell turned to Sir Robert, who 
had evinced no special interest in the brief colloquy; 
doubtless he had questioned the man to the same 
purpose already. 

“I suppose Lady Rawson is already aware of 
the loss of these papers, Sir Robert?” 

The query was uttered lightly, as if it was of no 
importance or significance, but was accompanied by 
a keen glance at Sir Robert’s harassed yet inscrut- 


RETURNED! 


39 


able face—a glance which again the financier did 
not meet. He laid down the paper-knife before he 
answered, in a tone as apparently careless as the 
detective’s had been. 

“No. I should have told her, of course, when 
we came to the conclusion that they were really lost, 
but she had already gone out. I was to have joined 
her after lunch, and gone on to Carling’s wedding. 
She will be there now,” he added, glancing at the 
clock on his writing-table. 

Snell’s eyes glistened. (“Lady Rawson’s in this, 
right enough,” he told himself confidently. “And 
he knows it. He only sent for me as a bit of 
bluff!”) 

Thomson entered, and advanced towards his 
master, ignoring the presence of a second person. 
At that moment the telephone on the writing-table 
tinkled, and Thomson stood still, silent and defer¬ 
ential as usual, as, mechanically, Sir Robert took 
down the receiver. 

“Yes? Yes, I am Sir Robert Rawson. Who 
is speaking? . . . Oh! . . . What’s that? . . . 
What?” 

The two who were watching him, more or less 
furtively, were startled, for he dropped the receiver, 
stumbled to his feet, and glared round helplessly, 
a dusky flush rising to his face, which was horribly 
distorted. 

Thomson was by his side in an instant, thrusting 
a supporting arm around him, but Snell sprang 
forward, seized the receiver and spoke imperatively 
into the telephone. 

“Who is there? . . . Yes, Sir Robert Rawson 


40 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


was speaking a moment ago, but he has been taken 
ill.” 

He glanced at the group close by. Sir Robert 
had fallen, or been lowered by Thomson to the 
floor, and the valet was rapidly unloosening his 
collar. 

“Who are you? . . . Oh, it’s you, Evans. 
Western Division. Yes, I’m John Snell of Scot¬ 
land Yard. . . . Well, what is it? Lady Rawson 
murdered! Had she any papers in her possession? 
. . . What? Right. I’ll be with you as soon as 
possible. Ring ofl.” 

“Master, master!” Thomson was stammering. 
“He’s dying!” 

Snell pressed the electric bell, and hurried to 
meet the footman. 

“Sir Robert is taken ill; he’s had bad news. 
Lady Rawson has been murdered. Better telephone 
for a doctor and fetch the housekeeper.” 

Two minutes later he was speeding westward in 
a taxi, eager to investigate this sudden and tragic 
development of the case, for he assumed instantly 
that the murder was the outcome of the theft of the 
papers. 

At the house in Grosvenor Gardens confusion 
reigned for a time. The only one among the 
flurried servants who kept a clear head at this crisis 
was the imperturbable Thomson, who, after the 
unwonted outburst of emotion that escaped him as 
he knelt beside his stricken master, resumed his 
habitual composure, and promptly took charge of 
the situation as it affected Sir Robert himself. For 
the time being he practically ignored the news of 


RETURNED! 


41 


the murder, which the others, naturally enough, be¬ 
gan discussing with awestruck excitement. Now, 
as ever, his one thought was his master, and with 
deft tenderness he did what he thought best— 
loosening the sufferer’s clothes and raising his head. 
When the doctor arrived 'Thomson proved an in¬ 
valuable assistant in every way. 

“Will he recover, sir?” he asked, with poignant 
anxiety, when at length they quitted the room to 
which Sir Robert had been carried, leaving him 
still unconscious, but breathing more naturally, and 
with a trained nurse already in attendance. 

“Yes, yes, I hope so; but it was an overwhelm¬ 
ing shock, of course. Is this terrible news about 
Lady Rawson true? It seems incredible.” 

Thomson passed his hand over his forehead 
dazedly. 

“I suppose it is, sir. I haven’t seemed to have 
time to think about it. It’s a terrible upset, and 
Mr. Carling away and all. There’s Lord War¬ 
rington. Excuse me, sir. I’d better speak to 
him.” 

There were several people in the hall, including 
a couple of energetic reporters who had managed 
to enter and were endeavouring to interrogate the 
worried butler and anyone else whom they could 
buttonhole, for the news had spread like wildfire, 
and outside a crowd had assembled, watching and 
waiting for the grim homecoming of the woman 
who had left that house but a few hours before in 
the full vigour of youth and beauty. 

Thomson approached a short, spare, but authori¬ 
tative-looking man, who had just been admitted, 


42 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


and before whom the others gave way respectfully 
—Lord Warrington of the Foreign Office. 

“Will you come in here, my lord?” he said, and 
ushered him into the library. 

The same young footman whom Snell had 
questioned hurried forward and detained Thomson 
for a moment, extending a salver with a heap of 
letters. 

“These have just come by post, Mr. Thomson. 
Hadn’t you better take them?” 

Thomson did so mechanically, and followed Lord 
Warrington, who turned to him the instant the 
door was closed. 

“This is an awful business, Thomson! Where’s 
Sir Robert?” 

“In bed, and at death’s door, my lord. They 
telephoned the news to him about my lady, and he 
had a kind of stroke.” 

“Good Heavens! But what does it all mean, 
man? What was Lady Rawson doing out there 
in the suburbs—and murdered in a post office tele¬ 
phone booth, of all places in the world!” 

He waved an evening paper he was carrying, 
and Thomson glanced at it dully. 

“I don’t know anything about it, my lord, except 
just that my lady was murdered. The Scotland 
Yard detective told me that, but I didn’t seem to 
grasp it at the time; I was too distressed about my 
master, and I’ve been with him ever since.” 

“A detective? Did he bring the news?” 

“Oh, no, my lord, it was through the tele¬ 
phone. He was here about those papers that are 
missing-” 



RETURNED! 


43 


‘‘Papers? What papers?” 

“Some that arrived by special messenger yester¬ 
day, my lord.” 

Warrington stared aghast. 

“Those! He told me about them at dinner. 
Missing! D’you mean they’re lost? Stolen?” 

“I thought perhaps you knew, my lord. Mr. 
Carling put them in the safe last night—or said 
he did—and this morning they were gone. Sir 
Robert was very put out, and so was Mr. Carling.” 

“Gone! Good Lord! I wonder what was in 
them and who’s got hold of them?” muttered Lord 
Warrington in utter consternation. His glance 
lighted on the letters that Thomson held. 

“What have you got there?” 

Thomson looked at them with a preoccupied 
air. 

“Only some letters, my lord, just come. I don’t 
know what to do with them, as Mr. Carling’s away.” 

“Here, give ’em to me—that one anyhow.” 

“That one” was a big, bulky, blue envelope, 
printed with Sir Robert’s name and address, and 
showing also the district postmark and a big official 
stamp indicative of the surcharge for an unpaid 
letter. 

“Where the dickens is Broadway?” Warrington 
muttered, as he scrutinized it. “Look here, Thom¬ 
son, I’m going to open this. Why the seal’s broken 
already!” 

“Very good, my lord,” Thomson murmured def¬ 
erentially but abstractedly. Yet he looked up with 
quickened interest as Lord Warrington uttered an 
involuntary exclamation. 


44 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“My lord! They—they’re not those very 
papers?” 

“They are! By Jove, that’s the queerest thing 
I’ve ever known! Now, who the deuce has found 
and returned them?” 


CHAPTER VI 


“NO. 5339” 

“rpHANK goodness for some peace and 
quietness at last! What a day it has 
JL been, with everything going wrong from 
beginning to end; and then this awful affair about 
poor Lady Rawson coming on the top of all the 
Other happenings. I shall hate the very thought 
of a wedding in future!” 

Winnie Winston shivered and spread her hands 
to the cheerful blaze in the cosy drawing-room of 
the flat in Chelsea which she shared with her brother 
George, who sprawled luxuriously in the easy chair 
opposite her, while between them was Austin Starr, 
also very much at his ease. He had found time 
to come round to apologize for his absence at the 
wedding, and to discuss the startling and mysterious 
tragedy of Lady Rawson’s death. There were very 
few days when he did not manage to see or con¬ 
verse with Winnie Winston, even if their inter¬ 
course was limited to a few sentences hurriedly ex¬ 
changed over the telephone. He loved her; from 
the first moment that he met her he had decided 
that she was the one woman in the world for him. 
But he would not ask her to marry, or even to be¬ 
come engaged to him, until he had an assured posi¬ 
tion to offer her. Meanwhile, though he secretly 
45 


46 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


hoped that she loved him, he could not be certain 
of that, for her attitude towards him was one of 
frank camaraderie that reminded him of his own 
countrywomen. In many ways she was much more 
like an American than an English girl. 

“Don’t say that, Miss Winnie. I guess the next 
wedding will be all right,” he responded cheerfully. 

“This one wasn’t,” she declared. “I’m not a 
bit superstitious—not as a rule—but really I’ve 
never known such a succession of misfortunes. 
First, the fog, and then Roger being so late, and the 
Rawsons not turning up. Mrs. Armitage was so 
sniffy about that; and of course she never imagined 
what the reason was. Who could imagine anything 
so horrible? And everything seemed so forlorn 
after Roger and Grace had gone; it always does 
somehow, but it was worse than usual to-day. Some 
of the people were staying—Mrs. Armitage had 
arranged a theatre party for us all to-night—I 
wonder if they’ve gone. I expect so! And she 
made me sing—you know how fussy she is—and I 
broke down utterly. Awfully silly of me, I know, 
but really I couldn’t help it. I can’t think what 
‘the maestro 9 would say if he knew it! So I came 
away: I simply felt I couldn’t stay in the house 
another minute; and there wasn’t a cab to be had, 
so I had to walk to the train; and the rain came on 
and ruined my new frock, which I meant to wear 
to-morrow—I’m singing at iEolian Hall in the 
afternoon.” 

“Never mind, wear that one you’ve got on now. 
You look just lovely in it!” counselled Austin, re¬ 
garding her with tender admiration. 


NO 5339 s 


47 


“That’s just like a man!” she laughed, glancing 
down at her gown; but the laugh had an uncertain 
ring, with a suggestion of tears in it. “Why, this 
is ever such an old thing that I only wear at home. 
But it’s not the frock really that I mind. I—I can’t 
help thinking about the horror of it all; poor Lady 
Rawson being murdered like that, so near to the 
church, too; she must have been actually on her 
way to the wedding!” 

“I don’t think she was,” said Austin reflectively, 
remembering how the murdered woman had been 
attired when he saw and identified her. “It’s a big 
mystery that will take a lot of unravelling.” 

“But they’ve got the chap already,” interposed 
George Winston, reaching for a late edition of an 
evening paper that he had just thrown aside—“that 
taxicab driver. It’s as clear as daylight so far. 
He must have seen Lady Rawson’s bag, thought 
she had something valuable in it, followed and 
stabbed her, and then made off through the back 
door, bag and all.” 

‘‘Queer sort of impulse to seize a highly respect¬ 
able ex-service man,” remarked Starr dryly. “And 
what was in the bag anyhow, for the contents 
haven’t been found up to now.” 

“You don’t believe he did it?” 

Before he could answer, the hall door-bell 
sounded imperatively, and Winnie started nervously. 

“Now, who can that be at this hour!” 

An elderly maidservant entered, Martha Sten- 
ning, who had grown grey in the Winstons’ service. 

“It’s the same gentleman that called before, Mr. 
George, and asked to see you or Miss Winnie. He 


48 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


says you wouldn’t know his name, but his business 
is important.” 

“All right, I’ll come, Martha,” said George, ris¬ 
ing and following her from the room. 

“I wonder who it is?” Winnie exclaimed anx¬ 
iously. “Martha says someone has been ringing 
up on the telephone several times while we were 
out, and asking all sorts of questions about-” 

They both looked round as George re-entered, 
followed by Snell, the detective, at sight of whom 
Starr rose, exclaiming: 

“Why, it’s you, Mr. Snell! Anything fresh?” 

“Not much at present, and I didn’t expect to 
see you here, Mr. Starr. Miss Winston? I must 
ask you to excuse my intrusion.” 

“This is Mr. Snell of Scotland Yard, Winnie,” 
George explained hurriedly. “He says Lady Raw- 
son rang up our number—5339—just before she 
was murdered. They’ve got it down in the post 
office book, and she must have been speaking at 
the very moment-” 

“Lady Rawson! Our number!” gasped Winnie, 
in utter surprise and perplexity. 

“Did you expect to receive a message from her, 
Miss Winston?” Snell inquired. 

“I? Certainly not; why, I’ve never spoken to 
her in my life, though I expected to meet her to¬ 
day at my friend’s wedding. You don’t know her 
either, do you, George?” she added, turning to her 
brother. 

“I’ve been to her receptions once or twice, but 
I’ve never exchanged a dozen words with her,” 
George asserted truthfully. “And I can’t imagine 




'NO. 5339’ 


49 


why she should have rung us up. I doubt if she 
even knew that my sister and I were to be at the 
wedding to-day or that we’re old friends of Carling 
and Miss Armitage—Mrs. Carling I mean, of 
course.” 

“Yet Mr. Carling has been on intimate terms—* 
like a member of the family—with Sir Robert and 
Lady Rawson,” Snell remarked. 

“With Sir Robert,” Winston corrected. “Lady 
Rawson was always quite kind, I believe; and I 
know she asked Miss Armitage to her house once 
or twice; but she never showed any real interest in 
either of them—no personal friendship, don’t you 
know! At least so I’ve gathered from Carling,” 
he added, wondering the while what the detective 
was driving at. 

“Then you think it unlikely that, assuming that 
she wished to speak to Mr. Carling on the tele¬ 
phone, she would expect to find him here?” 

“I’m quite sure she wouldn’t,” said George, and 
Winnie, nodding a confirmatory assent, added: 

“Besides, she wouldn’t expect him to be any¬ 
where just then except at the church or on his way 
there. Not if the time is given rightly in the paper. 
It said she went into the office about half-past one.” 

“Just so,” Snell agreed, and after a brief pause 
looked up with a query that at the moment sounded 
startlingly irrelevant. 

“Do you know Signor Cacciola, Miss Winston?” 

She stared in astonishment, scarcely grasping the 
question, especially as he mispronounced the name. 

“He’s a music master or something of the sort; 
lives at Rivercourt Mansions West,” Snell added. 


50 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“Signor Cacciola? Why, of course I know him; 
he’s my singing master—‘the maestro’ we always 
call him,” she answered, knitting her pretty brows 
in bewilderment, while Austin Starr, watching Snell, 
screwed his lips in the form of whistling, and listened 
intently for what might follow. 

“He comes here often?” 

“Yes. At least he does when he is coaching me 
for a special concert or anything like that. He 
has been here every morning this week except to¬ 
day.” 

“You did not expect him to-day?” 

“No. I was going to the wedding; and besides, 
he has an engagement every Thursday—at Black- 
heath, I think.” 

“You know him well? Have you known him 
long?” 

“For several years—ever since he came to Lon¬ 
don. He is a dear old man.” 

“An Italian?” 

“Yes, though he has not been in Italy for many 
years.” 

“He took a keen interest in Russian affairs,” 
Snell asserted. 

“Did he? I’m sure I don’t know. He certainly 
never talked about such things to me.” 

“Did he ever speak to you of Lady Rawson?” 

“Never!” 

It was impossible to doubt Winnie’s emphatic 
negative. 

Again he shifted his point, or appeared to do so. 

“Then you can’t give me any reason why Lady 
Rawson should have rung you up to-day?” 


NO 5339’ 


51 


“None at all, unless she gave a wrong number 
and it happened by chance to be ours.” 

“That’s just what I think,” exclaimed George. 

“It might have been so,” Snell assented. “I’ve 
known a good many coincidences as queer. Well, 
I’m very sorry to have troubled you so late, Miss 
Winston, and I must thank you for answering me 
so clearly. Some folks beat about the bush and 
are scared out of their senses at the very sight of 
a detective—when they know him as such,” he 
added, with a smile. “But we’re bound to get 
whatever information we can, even at the risk of 
worrying people who really haven’t anything to do 
with the case. And now I’ll take myself off.” 

“Have a whisky-and-soda first,” urged George 
Winston hospitably. “Of course we know you have 
to look up every point, and if we’d guessed the rea¬ 
son why we’ve been rung up so often to-day we 
should have been expecting you—or someone else 
on the same errand.” 

Snell declined the proffered refreshment, but 
accepted a cigarette, and lingered for a minute or 
two, chatting in a casual manner on the subject 
that was uppermost in all their minds. 

George questioned him about the suspected man, 
Sadler, the taxicab driver. 

“He’s doing all right; not as much hurt as was 
thought at first, and he’ll probably be able to at¬ 
tend the opening of the inquest to-morrow. But 
we haven’t been able to interrogate him yet; in 
fact he doesn’t know he’s under arrest.” 

“Do you believe he did it?” demanded George. 

“I never form an opinion on slight evidence,” 


52 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Snell replied guardedly. “Good night, Miss Wins¬ 
ton, good night, sir. Many thanks. Are you com¬ 
ing with me, Mr. Starr?” 

Starr shook his head. 

“I guess I shan’t get anything out of you if I 
do, Mr. Snell.” 

Snell smiled enigmatically. 

“Yet I’ve given you a lot just now, Mr. Starr, 
though I doubt if you’ll be able to make much of 
it in time for to-morrow’s ‘Courier.’ ” 

“What did he mean by that?” whispered Winnie, 
as her brother accompanied the unexpected guest 
to the door. 

“I’ll tell you to-morrow. I’m going to follow 
it up, right now, as he surmises. There are no 
flies on Mr. Snell! Good night, Miss Winnie.” 

In a minute or so George returned to the room. 

“My hat! This is queer experience, isn’t it, 
Win? I say, let’s try and get on to the ‘Lord 
Warden’ and speak to Roger. He’ll be awfully 
anxious to know about everything; there’s a lot in 
the late editions too that he won’t be able to see 
down there to-night.” 

“Oh, you can’t ring him up at this hour,” Win¬ 
nie protested, glancing at the clock. “Besides, it 
would frighten Grace if she knew. You said Roger 
was going to keep it from her.” 

“I’m going to ring him up,” George insisted. 
“It’s not really late—not for Roger anyhow. It’s 
only just on eleven.” 

Winnie let him have his way, not choosing to 
urge the various reasons against it that occurred at 


'NO. 5339’ 


53 


once to her quick feminine mind, but escaped her 
brother’s obtuse one. 

In a surprisingly short time for a “call” the tele¬ 
phone bell tinkled its summons, and George went 
out into the little hall to answer it. 

The colloquy was very brief, and as George hur¬ 
riedly re-entered she looked up with a whimsical 
“I told you so” expression on her pretty face, 
which fled as she saw his agitated aspect. 

“I say, Win, they’re not there!” 

“Not there!” she ejaculated, starting up. 

“Haven’t been there at all. They must be cross¬ 
ing by the night boat after all; such a beastly night 
too—half a gale and raining cats and dogs. It’s 
worse there than it is here. I asked.” 

“Crossing to-night! And Grace is the worst 
sailor imaginable. What on earth possessed Roger 
to take her?” 

“He must be mad—mad as a hatter!” cried 
George, but the same thought and explanation oc¬ 
curred to him as to Winnie, and their eyes met in 
a glance of mutual horror and consternation. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE CIGARETTE CASE 

F ROM Chelsea, Austin Starr went direct to 
Rivercourt Mansions, a quadrangular block 
of flats, standing back from the high road 
and fronting a square of grass and trees. 

He dismissed his cab at the entrance to the square, 
which he noted was nearly opposite to the post 
office where Lady Rawson had been done to death a 
few hours before. He stood for a minute, regard¬ 
less of the drizzling rain, staring across the thor¬ 
oughfare, almost deserted on this dreary night. 
He imagined the illfated woman crossing it, with 
the assassin dogging her footsteps. Who was that 
assassin, and what was his motive? He was al¬ 
ready certain in his own mind that the taxi-driver 
was as innocent of the crime as he was himself, 
although he had undoubtedly been close at hand at 
the time. And why had Lady Rawson visited 
Cacciola at his flat, and failing to find him there 
tried to ring him up at the Winstons’ ? He meant 
to discover that right now, if possible, feeling in¬ 
stinctively that here was the clue to the mystery. 
He guessed that Snell was already in possession of 
that clue, and had racked his brains in conjecture 
concerning it as he drove hither. But, though he 
had been with Snell all the afternoon, that astute 
54 


THE CIGARETTE CASE 


55 


individual had maintained silence concerning the 
stolen dispatches. He did not intend Starr or any 
other reporter to know of them at present. There 
were cases when he was glad to avail himself of 
the assistance of the Press, but this was not one of 
them. Already, thanks to a lucky accident—lucky 
from his point of view—he was in possession of 
evidence which he considered of the utmost im¬ 
portance, and on which he was building up a certain 
theory, which so far appeared to have very few 
flaws in it. 

A tram came clanking along the road and Austin 
Starr turned away along the side-walk, glancing up 
at the Mansions. Most of the windows were dark, 
but there were lights here and there. One shone 
cheerily from a window high up in the block he 
wanted. As he reached the entrance the lights in 
the hall and on the staircase went out, and in the 
sudden darkness he collided with a man in the door¬ 
way who accosted him with facetious apology. 

“Sorry, Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you.’ If I’d seen you 
coming I’d have waited till you got up. Half a 
minute, and I’ll switch on again.” 

He suited the action to the word, and Austin saw 
he was the porter, a small, spare man with a sharp- 
featured, whimsical face. 

“It’s all right,” Starr assured him, “I’m going 
up to Mr. Cacciola’s. The top flat, isn’t it? I 
guess he’s home, for there’s a light in the window.” 

“I don’t think he is, sir, he’s mostly later than 
this; but old Julia will be sitting up for him. Are 
you Mr. Roger Carling, by any chance, sir?” 

Austin Starr was considerably startled, though he 


56 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


made no sign beyond a penetrating glance at his in¬ 
terrogator, and answered quietly: 

“No, but I’m his intimate friend. What made 
you take me for him?” 

“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure. I don’t know the 
gentleman, but I saw the name on the cigarette case 
he dropped outside Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you’s’ door 
this morning. I always call the old gentleman that 
—nearest I can get to his name—and he don’t mind 
a bit, not he! Julia’s got the case all right—she’s 
Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you’s’ house-keeper; Italian same 
as him, and a good old sort. I thought perhaps 
you were Mr. Carling come after it.” 

Austin saw and interpreted aright a slight and 
significant crook of the little man’s fingers and pro¬ 
duced a coin. 

“So you found the case?” he remarked pleasantly. 
“Mr. Carling will be glad to know'it. I guess he 
hadn’t a notion where he dropped it. He’s left 
town to-day—on his honeymoon.” 

“Thank you, sir, though I’m sure I didn’t expect 
anything,” responded the little man, promptly 
pocketing the tip. “Gone on his honeymoon, has 
he? Why, he’s never the gentleman that was mar¬ 
ried at St. Paul’s to-day—the wedding that poor 
lady was on her way to when she was murdered? 
They didn’t give his name in the paper, I saw. 
Terrible thing, isn’t it, sir? And will you believe 
me, I never heard a word about it till nigh on tea- 
time ! It must have ’appened just after I went to 
my dinner: I was a bit late to-day; had to take a 
parcel up to No. 20—that’s when I found the cig¬ 
arette case; and if only I’d been about I might ’ave 


THE CIGARETTE CASE 


57 


seen it all. And to think of young Charlie Sadler 
doing such an awful thing. He must ’ave gone 
clean off his nut!” 

“You know him?” asked Starr quickly, thank¬ 
ful that the garrulous little man had strayed from 
the subject of Roger Carling’s presence so near the 
scene of the tragedy, though at the moment he was 
unable to analyse his thought sufficiently to know 
why he should feel thankful. 

“Know Charlie Sadler? Why, I’ve known him 
ever since he was a little nipper so high. Lives 
with his mother—a decent old soul—down* in Mil- 
som Cottages, and he’s courting little Jessie Jack- 
son over at the post office, on the sly, for her aunt, 
Mrs. Cave, don’t think him good enough for her; 
and it seems she’s right after all. But whoever 
would ’ave thought of ’im going and doing a mur¬ 
der like that?” 

“We don’t know yet that he did it,” said Starr. 

“Well, of course it’ll ’ave to be proved against 
him; but if he didn’t, then who did? That’s the 
question. And he was there right enough. Slipped 
in by the side door to see Jessie while her aunt was 
safe in the shop, and when the girl was called down 
he must ’ave seen the lady and been taken with one 
of these ’ere sudden temptations; and then when he 
found what he’d done he ’ooked it, and smashed up 
the cab and himself in his ’urry. There it is in a 
nutshell, sir!” Withers concluded triumphantly. 
Evidently he had been gossiping pretty freely dur¬ 
ing the evening, but as evidently he as yet knew 
nothing of Lady Rawson’s visit to Cacciola’s flat— 
if, indeed, she had been there—and attached no sig- 


58 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


nificance to Roger Carling’s visit. How should he? 

“Perhaps you’re right,” Starr conceded. “We’ll 
all have just to ‘wait and see’ anyhow. Well, I’ll 
go up-” 

“I’m sure Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you’s’ not in yet, 
sir; but I’ll give him any message for you in the 
morning,” suggested Withers officiously. 

“No, thanks, I’ll leave it with Julia if necessary. 
Good night.” 

“Good night, sir, and thank you. I’ll keep the 
lights on till you’ve got to the top.” 

Starr thanked him again and went upstairs— 
eight flights of them—outwardly composed, in¬ 
wardly more perturbed than he had ever been in 
his life before. His mind was in a dark tumult of 
suspicion and perplexity, which would have been in¬ 
creased if he could have known the news George 
Winston had just learnt from Dover—that Roger 
and Grace were not at the “Lord Warden.” 

“It’s impossible! He can’t have had anything to 
do with it!” he told himself impatiently, refusing 
even to formulate the suspicion that had arisen in 
his mind. Yet the suspicion was there. 

The lights below went out as he pressed the bell 
button at No. 19, but an instant later one flashed up 
within the hall of the flat and he heard a soft shuffle 
of slippered feet. But the door was not opened to 
him. The letter slit moved and through the aper¬ 
ture a woman’s voice demanded, in good enough 
English, though with a strong foreign accent: 

“Who is zere?” 

He responded with a counter-question: 

“Is Mr. Cacciola at home?” 



THE CIGARETTE CASE 


59 


“He is not. He vill perhaps not return to-night. 
Who are you?” 

“I reckon you won’t know my name. You’re 
Julia, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, I am Giulia. Vateesit?” 

“Open the door, there’s a good soul, and I’ll tell 
you. I can’t shout it through. It’s important.” 

“I do not know you,” she protested nervously 
after a pause. “You are from the police again?” 

So, as he guessed, Snell had already been here. 
He wondered that the loquacious porter had not 
seen him and scented the errand. 

“Yes,” he lied boldly. “So you’d better open the 
door right now. You’ve nothing to fear from me, 
and I shan’t keep you many minutes.” 

She muttered something that he could not catch, 
but a chain clanked, and a moment later she opened 
the door a few inches and peered out—a short, 
plump old woman, whose comely brown face and 
lustrous black eyes wore a strained, anxious expres¬ 
sion, that relaxed a little as she eyed her visitor. 

His appearance seemed to reassure her, for she 
drew back and motioned him to enter the little 
square hall. 

He smiled at her, and there were few women, 
young or old, who could resist Austin Starr’s smile. 
He had what some folk term “a way with him,” 
all the more effective since it was exerted un¬ 
consciously. 

“It’s real good of you, signora, to admit me at this 
unholy hour, and I’ll not keep you any time,” he 
began diplomatically. “First, I want that cigarette 
case that Mr. Roger Carling lost on your lobby this 


60 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


morning. The porter says he gave it to you.” 

“The leetle case? But I have it not! I gave 
it to the officer of police—he who came to-day, say¬ 
ing he was of the police, though he wore no uni¬ 
form; he was like yourself, signor,” she stammered. 

Starr’s heart sank. The moment he had heard 
of that cigarette case he determined to get pos¬ 
session of it, and if possible prevent any knowledge 
of it reaching the police, though again he did not 
attempt to analyse his motive. 

“I have done wrong in giving it him?” Giulia 
continued uneasily. 

“Not a bit of it, signora—that’s all right,” Starr 
answered, with a cheerfulness he was very far from 
feeling. “I haven’t seen Mr. Snell since or he’d 
have told me you had it. I guess you’ve told him 
about everything else too, but I’ll have to trouble 
you to tell me also. The maestro left home as 
usual to go to his class at Blackheath. What time 
did he go out?” 

“At a leetle after nine, signor.” 

“You’re sure he was going to Blackheath?” 

“Ah, yes, signor. Vere else would he go?” 

“When did Lady Rawson come?” 

“In a ver’ leetle time after the maestro go. He 
could scarce have reach the stazione.” 

“So early! Then she knew he would not be back. 
Why did she return?” 

Giulia hesitated. 

“I do not comprehend,” she muttered. 

“When did she go away?” 

“I do not remember.” 

“Come, that’s nonsense, signora. You must 


THE CIGARETTE CASE 


61 


know; try to think. She was here after one o’clock, 
we know that; in fact, she went straight from here 
to the post office where she was murdered.” 

Giulia stood speechless, plucking nervously at her 
white apron, and as he saw her embarrassment an 
idea flashed to his mind. 

“Great Scot! She was here the whole morning: 
she came in and waited. That’s so?” 

She nodded a reluctant assent. 

“She was here when Mr. Carling called just after 
one. Did he ask for her?” 

Again Giulia nodded. 

“Did he see her?” 

She shook her head. 

“She did not vish it. I said she vas not here. 
It vas a lie, and I do not like lies; but she vould 
have it so; and he go away. She look from the 
vindow, and vatch till he pass the corner, and then 
she go away also.” 

Starr stood musing for a space, and, master of 
his emotions though he was, Giulia’s keen old eyes 
detected a certain expression of relief on his face. 

He was inwardly reproaching himself also for 
part at least of the suspicion that had assailed him 
the instant he learnt that Carling had been there. 
He thought he knew Roger Carling as thoroughly 
as one man can know another, believed him to be 
the soul of honour and rectitude. But he also knew 
that in every human being there are depths that 
none other can plumb; and, remembering the cir¬ 
cumstances, the thought had occurred involuntarily 
that some shameful secret might be the cause and 
explanation of the mysterious tragedy. 


62 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


It was such an obvious solution. Lady Rawson, 
young, beautiful, extraordinarily attractive, mar¬ 
ried to a man almost old enough to be her grand¬ 
father and meeting every day one of her own age, 
handsome and debonair as was Carling. Danger¬ 
ous conditions enough, human nature being what it 
is! And Carling would not be the first man to be 
fascinated and entangled by an unscrupulous woman, 
even while he loved another woman—as Roger 
loved Grace—with all the strength of his better 
nature. 

But that idea might be dismissed, so far as Carling 
was concerned as a principal in the matter anyhow. 
Lady Rawson had not come here to meet him, had 
not expected or wished to see him when he followed 
her there. 

Yet if Lady Rawson did not come here to meet 
Carling, whom did she come to see—whom did 
she wait for all those hours? Not old Cacciola, 
certainly, for she learnt at once that he was out for 
the day. He turned to Giulia and put the question 
point blank. 

“Who was here this morning with you and Lady 
Rawson?” 

“No one; nevare any person at all!” she cried 
emphatically. 

“But you expected someone; that was why Lady 
Rawson waited.” 

She shook her head, but her eyes did not meet his, 
and her hands were trembling as she still fidgeted 
with her apron. 

“Zere vas no one, zere nevare has been no one; 
I have told all, signor.” 


THE CIGARETTE CASE 


63 


He found it was useless to question her further, 
and decided that he would not wait on the chance of 
learning anything from Cacciola. He gathered that 
the old man seldom returned till long after 
midnight. 

Groping his way down the dark staircase, he 
reached the high road just in time to board a tram 
going eastwards, which set him down at the ter¬ 
minus within a few hundred yards from the hospital 
to which Sadler had been taken. He might as 
well call and inquire as to the man’s condition. If 
there was anything to report there was still time 
to telephone to the office. 

A minute later he pushed back the swing-door 
and entered the lobby of the hospital, to find him¬ 
self face to face with SnelL 


CHAPTER VIII 


AT CACCIOLA’S 

S NELL greeted Austin with a smile and a sig¬ 
nificant cock of his left eyebrow. 

“You haven’t lost any time, Mr. Starr. 
But there’s nothing fresh here. Sadler’s just the 
same, and the doctor says it will be impossible for 
him to attend the inquest to-morrow, so we shall 
ask for a week’s adjournment. And he won’t be 
allowed to be ‘interviewed’ by anyone,” he added 
pointedly. 

“I guessed that, of course. I only meant to in¬ 
quire how he was. I take it he’s practically under 
arrest?” 

“Not at all. Under surveillance perhaps, which 
is a very different matter. And the less said about 
that or anything else the better for the present, Mr. 
Starr. No ‘stunts’ in this case, please. Well, did 
you find Cacciola at home? Or old Julia amiable?” 
“How did you know I’d been there?” 

“Guessed it, knowing you. That’s meant as a 
compliment.” 

“Cacciola hadn’t returned. I know him fairly 
well, having seen him a good few times at Miss 
Winston’s. And Giulia was civil enough, though 
she seemed a bit scared. She told me some yarn 
about a cigarrette case she had found.” 

64 


AT CACCIOLA’S 


65 


As they spoke in guarded tones, they had reis¬ 
sued from the hospital and now stood on the steps, 
where the lamp-light fell full on Snell’s face. 
Starr’s keen eyes were fixed on it, but it revealed 
nothing. 

“A cigarette case? Whose was it?” asked Snell. 

“Don’t you know? You’ve got it, haven’t you?” 

Starr strove to speak in a casual tone, but it was 
difficult to control his voice. Of all the many sen¬ 
sational cases he had come across this was the first 
that had touched him personally, and the horrible 
fear that Roger Carling might in some way be 
mixed up in it, and that Snell knew it, was still 
strong upon him. 

“Are you trying to cross-examine me?” asked the 
detective dryly. 

Possibly for the first time in his life under such 
circumstances Austin lost his self-possession. 

“See here, Snell, what’s the use of fencing?” he 
asked hotly. “You’ve got that case right enough. 
It’s Rog-” 

“Stop!” interrupted Snell imperatively, though 
without raising his voice. “I’ve mentioned no 
name. Take my advice, Mr. Starr, and don’t you 
mention one either. I’ve told you already that the 
less said the better, and if you can’t take the hint— 
well, that’s your affair.” 

Austin bit his lip, inwardly cursing himself for 
his indiscretion. If he had held his tongue about his 
knowledge of Roger Carling’s movements he might, 
sooner or later, have got some hint of what was 
in the detective’s mind. Now, in all probability he 
would get no further information at all. 



66 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“Sorry,” he muttered somewhat ungraciously. 
“You’re right, of course. But-” 

“But there’s nothing to add to your story to¬ 
night. Take my word for it,” said Snell, with re¬ 
stored good humour. “Which way are you going? 
Tube? I’m for the tram. What a beastly night! 
I shan’t be sorry to get indoors.” 

“Nor I,” Austin confessed with a shiver. 

Almost in silence they walked side by side 
through the chill‘drizzle to the station, and there 
parted, Snell crossing to the tram terminus. 

But he was not yet bound for home, as he had 
allowed and wished Starr to infer. Tireless and 
relentless as a sleuth-hound, he believed he was 
already fairly on the track of Lady Rawson’s mur¬ 
derer, but there were certain preliminary points he 
wished to clear up, and till he succeeded in that 
there would be no rest for him. 

The tram was crowded with returning theatre¬ 
goers, most of whom were discussing the grim crime 
and the reports in the late editions of the evening 
papers. None guessed how intimately the wiry 
little man in the drenched Burberry, meekly strap¬ 
hanging among them, was concerned with it, and 
quite a number alighted from the tram when he 
did, opposite the post office, and lingered in the rain 
staring at the house of tragedy, now dark and silent 
as a grave, with a solitary policeman standing guard, 
and in a subdued, monotonous voice requesting the 
whispering crowd to “Pass along, please.” 

Snell did not even glance at the house or the 
sentinel, but disappeared into the darkness of the 
square nearly opposite, three sides of which were 



AT CACCIOLA’S 


67 


occupied by the tall blocks of flats known as “River- 
court Mansions,” fronted by shrubberies, and with 
more shrubs and trees in the centre: a pleasant place 
enough in daylight, but gloomy and mysterious on 
this miserable wet midnight. Treading as lightly 
as a cat in his “silent-soled” shoes, Snell walked 
swiftly to the end of the square, and paused, to be 
joined immediately by a man in a dark mackintosh, 
who emerged from the shadow of the shrubs. 

“Anything to report, Evans?” Snell asked softly. 

“He hasn’t returned yet, sir. Mr. Starr went 
in and stayed a good few minutes, just after ten- 
thirty.” 

“I know. Did he see you?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Good. Anything else?” 

“A good many have come and gone—people liv¬ 
ing in the block; but none that I could spot as on 
this business.” 

Together they withdrew into deeper gloom again, 
and in dead silence waited and watched. Not for 
long. 

Another tram clanked westward, halted, went on, 
and a minute later footsteps approached—heavy, 
weary, dragging footsteps; and the figures of two 
men passed into the radius of light from the street 
lamp nearest the watchers. 

“That’s the signor—the fat one,” Snell’s sub¬ 
ordinate whispered. “The other’s the Russian.” 

“Come on,” said Snell, and silently they followed 
the two men, overtaking them as Cacciola was in¬ 
serting a latchkey into the outer door of the block 
where he lived. 


68 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


He turned with a start as Snell courteously ac¬ 
costed him. 

“Signor Cacciola? I have been waiting your 
return, and must have a few words with you to-night 
concerning the late Lady Rawson. If you will look 
at my card you will know who I am and that my 
business is urgent.” 

As he spoke he switched on his electric torch, 
handed the card to Cacciola, and watched the old 
man’s face as he read it—a plump, olive-complex- 
ioned, usually jolly face that now looked drav/n and 
grief-stricken. 

“By all means; enter, signor,” said Cacciola with 
grave dignity. “I—we—will give you all the as¬ 
sistance possible. You are not alone?” he added, 
narrowing his dark eyes in an endeavour to pierce 
the gloom beyond the circle of light. 

“No. But perhaps you will permit my man to 
wait in your hall for me,” returned Snell blandly. 

He did not anticipate danger, but anything might 
happen in that top flat, and, though he was coura¬ 
geous enough, he never took unnecessary risks. 

“But certainly. Lead the way, Boris. Will you 
continue the light, signor? The stairs are very 
dark—and long.” 

With hushed footsteps, and no sound beyond 
Cacciola’s heavy breathing, they stole in procession 
up the staircase, Evans bringing up the rear just be¬ 
hind Snell. 

As they reached the top landing the door of 
Cacciola’s flat opened, and Giulia appeared on the 
threshold, a dark figure against the lighted hall, 
began to speak volubly in Italian, and then, seeing 


AT CACCIOLA’S 


69 


her master’s companions, and recognizing Snell, 
stopped short and retreated a pace or two, glancing 
nervously from one to the other. 

“It’s all right, ma’am. No cause for alarm,” 
said Snell reassuringly. “I’ve been here before to¬ 
day, sir, in your absence, as I expect she was trying 
to tell you. Let her tell her story now, it will help 
us. And in English, please, as I don’t understand 
your language.” 

“She shall do so. Come with us, Giulia. Take 
off your wet coats, my friends.” 

Cacciola led the way into a large, comfortable 
room where a gas fire glowed cosily—a musician’s 
room, with the place of honour occupied by a mag¬ 
nificent grand piano. 

The Russian, who had not spoken a word, and 
moved like a man in a dream, allowed Cacciola to 
remove his dripping overcoat and push him into 
an easy chair. He was a delicate-looking, hand- 
some-featured young man, who seemed, and was, 
dazed with grief and horror. 

Rapidly, but quite coherently, Giulia poured out 
her story in broken English, frequently lapsing into 
Italian, to be as frequently, though gently, checked 
by her master. Much of it was already known to 
Snell, but there were one or two fresh and illumina¬ 
tive points. 

“La Donna Paula,” the name by which the old 
woman designated Lady Rawson, had come quite 
early, soon after the maestro’s departure, demand¬ 
ing to see Signor Boris, who was away, Giulia did 
not know where. Then she telephoned to Black- 
heath, in the hope of speaking to the maestro, and 


70 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


learnt he was not expected there to-day, and pres¬ 
ently she tried to telephone again, but lo! the in¬ 
strument would not serve—it was out of order! 

(“So that’s why she went to the call office,” Snell 
mentally commented, having already noticed the 
telephone on a table beside the piano.) 

Donna Paula appeared very impatient, also ag¬ 
itated, and when the bell rang bade Giulia deny 
that she was or had been there, if one should ask 
for her, and, of a verity, the young signor who came 
did so, and ask oh, very many questions. 

“Did he tell you his name?” interposed Snell. 

“But no, signor. Yet I learnt it later, for soon 
after Donna Paula had gone, the portaire ring and 
give me a little silver case he find, with a name on 
it that I forget, for then the signor there come, 
and I give him the case, and he have it now, and 
he tell me Donna Paula have been murdered, and 
I know not what to do or to say, but I wait and wait 
for you or Signor Boris, and no one come till late, so 
late, when yet another signor arrive, and say he also 
is of the police and ask for the little silver case, 
and I tell him I have it not. That is the truth— 
you have the case still, signor?” 

She whirled round towards Snell, who spoke 
soothingly. 

“Yes, yes, that’s all right, signora. Nobody’s 
blaming you for anything, and you’ve told your 
story admirably. Thank you very much. And 
now, sir, if you please, we’ll have our chat.” 

“Go, my good Giulia,” said Cacciola, “and be 
not so distressed, though, indeed, we are all cut tq 
the heart. Now, signor?” 


AT CACCIOLA’S 


71 


“I want you to tell everything you know about 
Lady Rawson—you and this gentleman, who, I 
think, were on terms of intimate friendship with the 
unfortunate lady.” 

It was no chance shot. Hours ago he had 
searched Lady Rawson’s rooms, and in her boudoir, 
hidden in the secret drawer of a costly antique 
writing-table, had found a big packet of letters, 
some of quite recent date, written in Russian. They 
were all signed merely with the initial “B,” and 
those which he had got translated at once gave him 
a fair inkling of the relations between the writer 
and the dead woman. The translation of the others 
would be in his hands to-morrow morning. 

If the Russian heard and understood the words 
he made no sign. He sat huddled in the chair 
where Cacciola had placed him, with one hand over 
his eyes. He might have been asleep for any move¬ 
ment that he made. 

“It is but very little I can tell,” said Cacciola. 
“It is true that she came here from time to time— 
not to see me, to see her cousin, my dear pupil 
Boris Melikoff here, who has been in the North 
since three days, and returned to-night only, to hear 
of this deed of horror. It has overwhelmed 
him, as you see. He is utterly exhausted. One 
moment-” 

Rising, he opened a corner cupboard, brought out 
a decanter half filled with wine, and some glasses, 
placed them on a table at Snell’s elbow, and filled 
one glass. 

“This may revive him, and I think we all need 
it. I pray you help yourself and your friend, signor. 



72 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


It is good wine, I give you my word,” he added 
with a courteous gesture. 

Crossing to Melikoff, he touched him, speaking 
caressingly as one would speak to a sick child. 

“Rouse yourself, caro, and drink. It is I, 
maestro f who implore you. The signor is here to 
learn the truth, and you must aid him.” 

Melikoff obeyed, and, after an instant’s hesita¬ 
tion, Snell accepted Cacciola’s invitation, poured out 
a glass of wine for himself and passed one to Evans 
with an affirmative nod. 

The old man was right. It was jolly good wine, 
and jolly well they all needed it! 

“That is better, eh?” said Cacciola, emptying 
and setting down his own glass, and looking with 
anxious affection at Boris, who sat upright and 
turned his brilliant, haggard eyes on Snell. 

“You want to know—what?” he asked in per¬ 
fect English, and in a low, singularly musical voice, 
tense with repressed emotion. 

“Everything you can tell me concerning Lady 
Rawson, whom the signor here says was your cou¬ 
sin. Is that so?” 

“That is so. But I can tell you nothing more.” 

“Come, come, Mr. Melikoff. That won’t do!” 
Snell retorted, more sternly than he had yet spoken. 
“I am in possession of many of your recent letters 
to her, and am aware of their contents. Do you 
understand me?” 

“No,” said Melikoff curtly. 

“Then I must try to make you.” 

“You think I murdered her!” cried the Russian, 
with more vehemence than a moment before he had 


AT CACCIOLA’S 


73 


seemed capable of. “I, who would have given my 
life, my soul, to save her!” 

“Nothing of the kind. I might have done so if 
I hadn’t happened to know that your friend here 
spoke the truth when he said you were away—miles 
away from here—at the time. But it’s my duty to 
discover who did murder the unfortunate lady, and 
if you don’t choose to give me any information you 
can that may assist me, here and now, you’ll only 
have it wrung from you later in cross-examination. 
So please yourself!” 

“He is right—you must tell him all you know, 
my son,” interposed Cacciola. “I myself know so 
little,” he added plaintively to Snell. “They have 
always kept me—how do you call it?—in the dark, 
these two unhappy ones.” 

“Well, while Mr. Melikoff makes up his mind as 
to whether he’s going to say anything or nothing 
to-night, Signor Cacciola, perhaps you’ll explain just 
what your association with them both was, and why 
her ladyship came here, more or less disguised, so 
often?” 

The old man flung out his hands with a deprecat¬ 
ing gesture. 

“I know so little,” he repeated distressfully. “At 
least of Milady Rawson—Donna Paula as we call 
her. I love him—Boris—as if he were my son. 
I learn to know him first, oh, many years since, in 
Russia, when he was a little boy, with the voice of 
an angel. Though quite untrain, signor, he sing 
like the birds of the air! And I say to him then, 
and to his mother, the countess, ‘He shall come to 
me in good time, and I make him the greatest singer 


74 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


in the whole world.’ And at last he came-” 

“When?” 

“But two years since, signor; and the good saints 
guided him to me, for he did not mean to come. 
He had escape with the bare life from his unhappy 
country, having fought in the Great War, and then 
against the Red Terror, till all was lost—all, all 
swept away. He was at the gate of death when I 
find him and bring him home here so joyfully, and 
Giulia and I nurse him back to health, and I begin 
to train him, or I try, for the voice is there, signor, 
beautiful as ever, but the desire to sing—alas!” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and again threw up 
his hands with an expressive gesture. 

“He doesn’t want to go in for singing now?” 
asked Snell, with a swift glance at the Russian, who 
had relasped into his former attitude. Yet the de¬ 
tective believed he was listening to the colloquy. 

“That is so, signor. It is my great grief. I tell 
him it is wrong to waste the gift of God; I tell him 
music is a great and a jealous mistress that demands 
all devotion—that the singer should have no 
country, no other love, no other mistress than his 
art!” 

“H’m! And where does Lady Rawson come 
in?” asked Snell dryly, mindful of those letters. 

Cacciola hesitated and glanced uneasily at Meli- 
koff. Hitherto his manner had been engagingly 
frank; now it changed, became guarded, even 
furtive. 

“It is so—so difficult,” he said slowly. “They 
are cousins—yes. They had not met for years; he 



AT CACCIOLA’S 


75 


thought she had perished, like so many—so 
many, until he found she was here in England, mar¬ 
ried to the great Sir Rawson.” 

“When did he find that out? Before or after he 
came to you?” 

“After—many weeks after he recover. I was 
glad—and sorry: glad that one whom he loved still 
lived, sorry-” 

“Go on, sir—sorry because?” 

“It is so difficult,” Cacciola murmured, with an¬ 
other appealing glance at Boris. 

“Did Sir Robert know of their connection?” 

Cacciola shook his head. 

“Did he ever go to see her in her own house?” 

Again the mute negative. 

“So they used to meet here, in your flat, in 
secret?” 

“It was not my wish,” Cacciola muttered, his 
distress increasing under interrogation. 

“And they were engaged in some Russian plot. 
Were there any others in it? Who made this their 
meeting place?” 

“I do not-” 

Cacciola’s faltering denial was cut short, for 
Melikoff sprang to his feet and confronted Snell, 
who also rose. 

“Enough!” cried the Russian. “The maestro is 
rights—he does not know ! And there was—there 
is—no plot as you call it, save that she and I, like 
many others of our race, were always waiting and 
watching, and hoping for some means of serving 
our unhappy country. Also, we loved each other 




76 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


—yes! But I swear to you it was love without one 
taint of dishonour to her, to me, to that old man, 
her husband!” 

Was he speaking the truth in this respect? 
Snell, with his wide knowledge of poor human 
nature, and mentally comparing this handsome, pas¬ 
sionate, emotional youth with Sir Robert—old, for¬ 
mal, pompous!—greatly doubted it. 

But the point did not interest him except as it 
might afford some clue to the mystery. It was 
not his job to make inquisition into anyone’s morals. 

“Did you expect Lady Rawson to visit you to¬ 
day?” he asked. 

“No. How could I? It is two weeks—more 
—since I have even seen her. I had to go to 
Birmingham-” 

“On my affairs—there is no secret about that,” 
interposed Cacciola, but neither heeded him. 

“I did not send word to her of my journey—you 
know that, if you have—her—letters, as you say,” 
Boris continued. “I do not know why she came 
to-day—to meet her death!” 

“She came to give or show you some important 
and secret papers which she stole from her husband’s 
safe this morning,” said Snell bluntly. 

“So? I know nothing of that.” 

“But someone knew. Those papers were in her 
hand-bag, which was snatched from her by the per¬ 
son who followed and stabbed her, and has since 
been found empty. Now, do you know of anyone 
whatsoever, man or woman, who would be likely 
to know or guess that she had those papers in her 
possession?” 



AT CACCIOLA’S 


77 


“Of our people? None! Was she not one of 
us—the most trusted, the most beloved? Not one 
of us would have harmed a hair of her head! 
Wait—let me think. They were her husband’s 
papers-” 

For some seconds he stood knitting his dark 
brows, then, very slowly: 

“There is one man. Her husband’s secre¬ 
tary-” 

“Do you know him?” 

“I have never seen him, but his name is Car— 
Carling!” 

“Were they enemies?” 

“No, not openly; but she feared him. She 
thought he—watched her. Mon Dieu! The man 
who came here to-day, as Giulia said, and asked for 
her. That was the man! I will find him! I will 
kill him!” 

His haggard young face was terrible to see in 
the frenzy of hatred that distorted it; his slender 
hands moved convulsively as though he already felt 
his fingers clutching Roger Carling’s throat. Cac- 
ciola seized one arm, Snell the other, and he col¬ 
lapsed under their grasp, and fell into the chair, 
sobbing like a woman or like a man who has been 
shot. 

“It is too much for him!” cried Cacciola. 
“Boris, Boris. Courage, my child!” 

“Poor chap!” said Snell. “I won’t worry him 
any more, nor you either to-night, sir. And I must 
ask you to keep silence for the present. You’ll be 
worried by a horde of inquirers—journalists espe¬ 
cially—for the next few days, but you tell your old 




78 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Julia to lock the door. Don’t you see anyone, and 
take care he doesn’t.” 

“You may trust us, signor,” said the old man. 
“Then, good night, sir. Come on, Evans.” 


CHAPTER IX 

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM 

E VEN a short railway journey often has the 
effect of creating an interval that means far 
longer than the actual lapse of time—a 
honeymoon journey perhaps most of all, marking, 
as it does, the turning point, the beginning of a new 
epoch in two young lives. 

Therefore, by the time Roger and his bride ar¬ 
rived at Dover he had not only recovered his 
equanimity, but the extraordinary events of the 
morning, and even the grim and startling news he 
had learned at the moment of departure had receded 
far away, like the remembrance of an evil dream. 
The only thing that really mattered was the great 
and wonderful fact that he and Grace were together, 
and would be henceforth not only, as the beautiful 
words in which they had so lately plighted their 
solemn troth declared, “till death us do part,” but, 
as all true lovers hope and believe, together in spirit 
for all eternity—“out beyond into the dream to 
come.” 

The proud, tender, protective air with which he 
assisted Grace to alight, the radiant happiness of 
their young faces, were instantly “spotted” by the 
nearest porter, who bustled up in cheery anticipation 
of a noble tip. 

“Two cabin trunks, kit-bag, and two hat-boxes in 
79 


80 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


the van—very good, sir,” said he, taking possession 
of Grace’s dressing case and travelling rugs. 
“What are they like? New?” 

“Oh, no! quite old. We’ll point them out,” said 
Grace with demure dignity, and shot an adorable 
glance at Roger as they followed the man, thread¬ 
ing their way through the crowd on the platform. 

They had decided to avoid any brand-new ap¬ 
pearance, fondly imagining thereby that they would 
pass as an “old married couple”—as though any 
such device could conceal their blissful state from 
even the least observant of onlookers! 

They halted behind an opulent-looking couple, 
the man smoking a huge cigar, the lady shrilly claim¬ 
ing a whole pile of trunks as they were bundled out 
of the van, and Grace, with a little gasp of dismay, 
clutched Roger’s sleeve and drew him aside. 

“Oh, look, Roger!” she whispered, “there are 
the Fosters, and they’re putting up at the ‘Lord 
Warden’!” 

“Well, what about it, darling?” 

“We’re bound to meet them, and I do dislike 
them so and wouldn’t let mother ask them to the 
wedding; we had quite a scene about it, and Daddy 
backed me up. They are such impossible people. 
It will be so awkward. Can’t we dodge them?” 

“Of course we can—nothing easier. We’ll lie 
low till they clear off and then go to the Grand.” 

So they did, and once safe in the taxi laughed 
gaily over the narrow escape, little imagining what 
a sinister significance would soon be attached to 
their impulsive change of plan. 

He waited in the lounge while Grace was upstairs 


BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM 


81 


unpacking and dinner was being laid in the private 
sitting-room he had secured. As it happened there 
were very few people staying in the hotel, and for 
the moment he had the place to himself. 

He ordered a whisky-and-soda, and with it the 
attendant brought and evening paper. 

“Just come down, sir. There’s been a horrible 
murder of a lady in London.” 

So it was impossible to escape from the tragedy 
that haunted him on this, his wedding day. 

He took the paper without comment, glanced 
at it, and laid it aside. It was the same edition that 
George Winston had thrust into his hands at Vic¬ 
toria. For a minute or more he sat in painful 
thought, then, leaving his glass untouched, went 
through to the office and gave the Grosvenor Gar¬ 
dens telephone number for a long-distance call. 

“I’ll call you, sir; it may be some time getting 
through.” 

“All right. I’ll be in the lounge.” 

But within a couple of minutes the summons came, 
and, hastily finishing his drink, he hurried to the 
booth. 

Thomson’s voice sounded, civil, precise, distinct, 
as usual. At the telephone as in most other re¬ 
spects Sir Robert’s trusted attendant was admirable, 
unimpeachable. 

“Hullo, Thomson! Carling speaking. I’ve just 
arrived at Dover and seen the awful news. Where 
is Sir Robert?” 

“In bed, sir, and still unconscious, though the 
doctors say that is all the better under the circum¬ 
stances. In fact, I believe he is under an opiate. 


82 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


He had a sort of stroke, sir, when he heard—by 
telephone—of her ladyship’s death.” 

“How on earth did it happen—the—the murder 
I mean? I’ve only seen the bare announcement.” 

“In a ’phone booth, sir. If I may be permitted 
to state an opinion” (agitated though he was, Roger 
smiled at the formal phraseology, so entirely char¬ 
acteristic of old Thomson), “her ladyship was fol¬ 
lowed by someone who imagined she had valuables 
in her bag—a large and very handsome one—struck 
her down, and then finding those papers in it, and 
not knowing how to get rid of them, just put them 
into a post box, so then they came back to Sir 
Robert-” 

“What! What papers?” Roger shouted into 
the transmitter, scarcely able to believe he had heard 
aright. “Not those we were searching for this 
morning?” 

“The same, I understand, sir. They were de¬ 
livered, surcharged, by the five o’clock post, and as 
Lord Warrington happened to be here, inquiring 
for Sir Robert, I made bold to give them to his 
lordship, who has taken charge of them.” 

“What wonderful, what incredible luck!” ex¬ 
claimed Roger, forgetting for the moment the grim 
central circumstance, and was ashamed next instant, 
especially as Thomson’s voice sounded distinctly 
severe and shocked: 

“I fear it cost her ladyship her life, sir.” 

“You’re right, Thomson. The whole thing is 
too terrible, and I oughn’t to have spoken like that. 
But it is a relief to know that the papers, at least, 
are safe. They are tremendously important. But, 



BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM 


83 


look here, Thomson, is there anything I can do? 
I am terribly concerned and anxious about Sir 
Robert. Do you think I ought to come back to 
town to-morrow, or—or even to-night? I don’t 
want to, of course, and, if possible, I shall keep the 
news from—Mrs. Carling—till the morning-” 

There was a little pause—only a few sec¬ 
onds, though it seemed longer—before Thomson 
replied : 

“I don’t think it should be at all necessary, sir. 
I’m sure you can do nothing for Sir Robert at 
present; the doctors do not anticipate any immediate 
danger.” 

“Well, I’ll ring you up in the morning then.” 

“Very good, sir. I hope you will not consider 
it presumptuous of me to express my deep regret 
that these terrible occurrences should have marred 
your wedding day, and to convey my respectful 
wishes to you and your good lady?” 

“Presumptuous! Good Lord, no! It’s very 
kind of you, Thomson. Many thanks,” said Roger, 
again smiling involuntarily. “Well, if Sir Robert 
should ask for me, tell him you’re in touch with 
me. 

“I will, sir. Good night, sir.” 

“Good night.” 

Only after he had replaced the receiver did he 
remember that he had not told Thomson where he 
was speaking from, but decided it wasn’t worth 
while putting another call through. For to-night 
at least he would not be wanted, and he would strive 
to dismiss the whole tragedy from his mind. What 
a queer old stick Thomson was, but a good sort too! 



84 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


And that astounding news of the recovery of the 
papers was very reassuring. 

Now for Grace—his own, his beloved! He 
went up in the lift, and tapped softly at the bed¬ 
room door. It opened instantly, and there she 
stood, fresh and fair, in a simple evening gown of 
some filmy grey stuff, a shy smile on her dear lips. 

“Oh, what a tired and grubby boy!” she laughed. 
“He wants his dinner very badly, he does, and I 
b’lieve I do too! As the king and queen are travel¬ 
ling without attendants on this interesting occasion, 
the queen (that’s me) has laid out your things, sir 
—your majesty, I mean—and quite correctly I’m 
sure. I’ve done it so often for daddy. Now, 
don’t be long!” 

“I shan’t be ten minutes, darling,” Roger as¬ 
sured her, and was almost as good as his word. 

As charming a pair of lovers as could be found 
in the whole, wide world they looked, as they sat 
facing each other at the daintily appointed dinner- 
table, with the head waiter—a little apple-cheeked, 
grey-haired, blue-eyed old man with an expansive 
smile—gliding in and out and ministering to their 
wants with paternal solicitude. He knew well 
enough what was due to the occasion; those travel- 
worn trunks hadn’t deceived him, any more than 
they had deceived the railway porter or anyone 
else! And the flourish with which he presented the 
wine list was mere pretence, for when, after a short 
discussion, they decided on champagne, he didn’t 
even have to go to fetch it, but instantly produced a 
magnum of the best, placed there, all ready, on 
the sideboard. 


BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM 


85 


Dinner over, they moved to the big chesterfield 
drawn up before the blazing fire, and sat down in 
discreet silence till the table was cleared and the 
beneficent waiter finally departed. 

“At last!” said Roger, throwing his half-smoked 
cigarette into the fire, and drawing his wife to him. 
“Isn’t this cosy and jolly, darling?” 

“Lovely,” Grace murmured, snuggling happily in 
his arm. “Almost as good as our own home’s go¬ 
ing to be. Don’t you wish we were there already, 
Roger, sitting in front of our very own fire?” 

“I don’t wish for anything better in the world 
than to have you beside me, sweetheart,” he 
responded. 

The little silence that followed, of sheer peace 
and content, was disturbed by a fierce onslaught of 
hail on the window-panes, and a blast of wind that 
swept and shrieked round the building like a legion 
of lost souls. 

“My word, hark at that! It’s going to be a wild 
night,” said Roger. “No crossing for us to-morrow 
if it’s like this. Why, you’re shivering, dearest. 
Cold?” 

“No, it’s only that dreadful wail of the wind. 
When I was a little girl my nurse used to tell me it 
was the souls of drowned sailors shrieking, and I 
believed her, for years and years. . . . God guard 
all who are on the sea to-night!” 

The words, uttered in a fervent whisper, were 
a real and fervent prayer. He knew that as 
he looked down lovingly at her sweet, thoughtful 
face. 

“D’you know, Roger,” she resumed presently, 


86 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“I’m not sure that I want to go to Nice, or any¬ 
where else abroad, after all.” 

“Why, then, we won’t! The queen shall do 
exactly as she likes. I’m not a bit keen on a smart 
place either, only-” 

Grace looked up with a little whimsical smile in 
which there was a touch of pathos. 

“Only mother said we were to—that it was ‘the 
proper thing’—and it was less trouble to agree with 
her than to argue the point. That’s the real 
trouble, isn’t it? And, after all, we haven’t had a 
quiet moment to discuss anything between ourselves 
for weeks and weeks, what with mother and dress¬ 
makers on my side, and Sir Robert keeping you so 
hard at work on yours, right up to the last moment 
too, upsetting us all so, and nearly making you too 
late to be married! Tiresome old gentleman!” 

“It wasn’t his fault,” said Roger hastily. “But 
don’t let us think any more of that. We’re free to 
please ourselves now—go where we like and do 
what we like. So what shall we do? Stay here?” 

“No. I’ve been thinking. Really it flashed into 
my mind while I was dressing and waiting for you 
before dinner. There’s such a dear little place 
quite close here—St. Margaret’s—where daddy and 
I stayed when he was getting over influenza, just 
after Armistice—this very same time of year, when 
you were still in France, you poor boy! We had 
the loveliest time, all by ourselves. Mother 
wouldn’t come; she said it would be too deadly in 
the winter, but it wasn’t—not for us, anyhow! And 
we had the cosiest rooms imaginable in a dinky cot¬ 
tage on the cliff, a regular sun-trap, with a dear old 



BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM 


87 


landlady, Miss Culpepper, who reminded us of 
‘Cranford’ and cherished us both no end. Let’s go 
over and see if she’s still there and can put us up. 
I expect she can, for I remember we seemed to have 
the whole place to ourselves.” 

“Topping!” Roger agreed heartily, as he would 
have done if she had proposed to start on an expedi¬ 
tion to Timbuctoo. “And, I say, darling, I’ll try 
to get a car just for the time we’re down here, and 
we’ll have some jolly runs.” 

“Splendid! But won’t that cost a lot?” 

“Why, bless your careful little heart, think of all 
the money we shall save by scrapping that conti¬ 
nental trip! It’s a simply ripping idea!” 

“I wonder what mother will say when she 
knows?” laughed Grace. “I shan’t say a word to 
her about it when I write to her to-morrow; she’ll 
think we’re travelling; so will every one else for a 
week or two, for we won’t own up till they might 
be getting anxious, except perhaps to daddy and 
Winnie, and they’ll keep counsel all right. What 
fun it will be!” 


CHAPTER X 


GRACE LEARNS THE NEWS 

^ O think that it should have been on our 
wedding day—almost at the very mo- 
JL ment! Oh, the poor, poor soul! Who 
can have done the awful thing?” 

Grace Carling’s sweet face was pale and tear- 
stained. At last she had learned the grim news that 
Roger had successfully suppressed until now, just 
after breakfast in their sitting-room at the hotel. 
It would have been impossible to keep the secret 
from her longer; all the morning papers were full 
of the murder, though the mystery appeared deeper 
than ever. As he hastily scanned the columns while 
he waited for Grace, Roger noted that none of the 
reports so much as mentioned the stolen papers that 
had been returned in so extraordinary a manner and 
that almost certainly were the pivot of the tragedy. 
The police knew of these, for he himself had rung 
up Scotland Yard, and Sir Robert was awaiting the 
arrival of a detective when he, Roger, had been 
obliged to leave him. But evidently the informa¬ 
tion had been withheld from the Press. 

The theory advanced, and considerably elabo¬ 
rated, was that which Thomson had propounded 
over the ’phone, and much stress was laid on the 
fact that the murderer had missed some at least of 
88 


GRACE LEARNS THE NEWS 


89 


his anticipated spoil—the gold purse—with much 
conjecture as to whether the bag had contained any 
other valuables. 

Naturally, Grace was terribly distressed; also, her 
quick mind instantly divined that this was the cause 
of Roger’s strange emotion yesterday, that, for the 
moment, had so startled and alarmed her. 

“It was a shock,” he confessed. “Honestly, 
darling, when I saw that poster, and George gave 
me the paper, I was more upset than I’ve ever been 
in my life before; what with the horror of the 
thing itself, and wanting to keep it from you. I 
couldn’t bear to let you know, just then, the great 
day of our lives! Though even now I don’t know 
how I managed it.” 

His voice was husky with emotion, and she looked 
up at him, smiling through her tears. 

“It was dear of you, Roger! I never suspected 
—how could I? . . . But what in the world can she 
have been doing there, so near us, and in disguise, 
as they say?” 

“Heaven knows, dear, except that I’m pretty cer¬ 
tain she had been to a flat in a square nearly op¬ 
posite; not for the first time, though why she went 
there, I know no more than you do.” 

“The square opposite? Why, that must be 
Rivercourt Mansions. What makes you think she 
had been there?” 

“Because I saw her, a few days ago. By George ! 
it was only last Tuesday, though it seems more like 
a year. You remember I came to dinner-” 

“Of course, and turned up very early.” 

He nodded. 



90 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“It was because I got away so much earlier than 
I expected that I walked from the station, and pres¬ 
ently I saw her walking rapidly a few yards in front 
of me. I shouldn’t have known her but for her 
gait: you know that curious way of hers—graceful 
I suppose, but-” 

“I know, like a snake; we always said so!” 

“Yes, and she was very plainly dressed, in a long, 
dark cloak and floating veil, almost like a nurse’s 
uniform; but I was quite sure it was she; and it was, 
for she evidently wore the same get-up yesterday,” 
he added, picking up one of the newspapers and 
pointing to the detailed description. 

“What did you do?” breathed Grace. 

“Well, it wasn’t my business, of course, and I 
had no right to spy on her, so I loitered a bit, in¬ 
creasing the distance between us. I saw her turn 
the corner, and when I reached the square I really 
couldn’t resist just glancing down, and I caught 
sight of her blue veil disappearing through the en¬ 
trance of the north block. That’s all; I scarcely 
gave another thought to it.” 

“And you believe she went there again yesterday, 
but that’s very important, isn’t it, Roger? Oughtn’t 
you to tell the police?” 

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, and, hands in 
pockets, he paced up and down the room, paused 
and stared out of the window, frowning perplexedly. 

Grace watched him with anxious, puzzled eyes. 
It seemed a long time before he turned to her again, 
and spoke with curious hesitation. 

“You see, it’s this way, darling. I’m thinking of 
Sir Robert, and of him alone. I fear there is a 



GRACE LEARNS THE NEWS 


91 


great deal more behind this—this crime than 
appears on the surface. The Press don’t know of 
it yet, that’s evident; the police may suspect, but I 
doubt if they know —in fact they can’t know every¬ 
thing unless they’ve seen those papers that were lost, 
and that’s unlikely, if it’s true, as Thomson said, 
they’ve been returned, and are in Lord Warrington’s 
hands. He will keep them safe enough!” 

“But I don’t understand,” protested Grace. 
“Surely, Roger, the most important thing is to trace 
Lady Rawson’s murderer?” 

“No,” said Roger decisively. “The most im¬ 
portant thing is to keep all knowledge of those 
papers secret for the present. No disclosures 
can bring that poor, unhappy woman back to life; 
while if the secret information contained in those 
papers were prematurely divulged God knows what 
would happen—war, almost to a certainty, and 
thousands of lives would be sacrificed.” 

Grace drew a little sobbing breath, her eyes still 
intent on his face. She had a curious feeling that 
he was not speaking to her, but was arguing with 
some invisible person. 

“I don’t believe her visit to Rivercourt Mansions 
had any connection at all with the murder,” he con¬ 
tinued, “except, indeed, that it brought her into the 
neighbourhood. She was robbed and killed by some 
loitering ruffian who had watched her—an old 
hand, doubtless, who, when he found he’d got noth- 
ing, got rid of the evidence instantly, very cleverly 
too—chucked the bag through the window of the 
cab, and slipped the envelope into the nearest post 
box.” 


92 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“You are sure she had those papers?” 

“Absolutely, though I’ve no actual evidence. But 
I was certain of it from the first, and so, I am con¬ 
vinced, was Sir Robert, though of course he gave 
no hint of that. But she was the only person ex¬ 
cept ourselves who could possibly have had access to 
the keys of the safe.” 

“But why should she steal them?” 

“That I don’t know; I can only conjecture. You 
see, I’ve suspected her more or less vaguely for 
months. She was always coming in and out of the 
room—the only person who was allowed to do so 
when I was at work; but Sir Robert adored her, 
" never crossed her in anything, and of course it was 
impossible for me to raise any objection! She used 
to come and go as softly as a cat—or a snake. 
Time after time I’ve been startled to find her close 
beside me, looking over my shoulder. On Wednes¬ 
day night, the last time I saw her, she tried to get a 
look at those very papers, and I was just in time to 
prevent her. It all sounds very trivial perhaps, but 
there it is; and of course there was always the feel¬ 
ing that she was an alien. But I really couldn’t de¬ 
fine my suspicions—at any rate, not till yesterday, 
and then not clearly.” 

“How did you know she had gone to that place 
again?” 

Again he hesitated, and resumed his restless pac¬ 
ing. Should he tell his wife everything? Yes. 
She was part of himself now—the better, purer, 
nobler part. He would have no secrets from her, 
except such secrets of State as were entrusted to him 
by his chief; and this was not one of those. 


GRACE LEARNS THE NEWS 


93 


“I’ll tell you the whole thing from first to last, 
darling,” he said, seating himself beside her. “The 
moment I knew the papers were stolen I thought of 
her instinctively, and when I learned she was out I 
thought of the queer incident of Tuesday night. 
While Sir Robert was questioning the servants I 
turned up the Directory. There’s only one for¬ 
eign name among all the list at Rivercourt Mansions: 
‘G. Cacciola, Professor of Voice-Production.’ ” 

“Cacciola! Good gracious!” gasped Grace. 
“Why, I know him quite well. He’s Winnie’s 
maestro, the dearest, kindest, funniest old thing im¬ 
aginable. You must have heard me speak of him!” 

“Don’t remember it. But anyhow I thought I’d 
go there on spec, and ask for her. It couldn’t do 
any harm and might be of immense service. As it 
was so near the church I’d just time, if I didn’t go to 
Starr’s to change, and I knew you’d forgive me for 
not turning up in glad rags, darling, if I told you all 
about it afterwards. So I said good-bye to Sir Rob¬ 
ert, jumped into a taxi, and drove straight there. I 
saw an old Italian woman, and asked boldly for 
Lady Rawson. I’d guessed rightly—she was there, 
I’m convinced from the woman’s manner, though she 
swore she wasn’t, but she knew' the name well 
enough, and I’d take my oath she was lying. I 
couldn’t very well force my way in and search the 
place; and as time was running short there was 
nothing to be done but push off. Like an ass I had 
paid the taxi and never told the man to wait, and 
there wasn’t another in sight.” 

“There never is thereabouts.” 

“That’s why I was so late—that and the fog. I 


94 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


jumped on a tram, got down at the Avenue, and 
plunged right into the fog. My hat! how thick it 
was—you couldn’t see your hand before your face! 
Pretty position for a bridegroom, eh? I thought I 
never should get through in time; I kept barging 
into trees and palings till—well, you know the rest, 
darling.” 

“You poor boy! No wonder you looked hall 
dead,” Grace commented. Somehow his vivacious 
narrative had relieved the tension, diverted her mind 
from the main tragedy. “But how very queer about 
the maestro —Signor Cacciola, I mean. I wonder if 
Winnie knows that poor Lady Rawson knew him? 
I don’t think she can, or she would certainly have 
said something about it.” 

“Well, she was there. But you see now, don’t 
you, darling, why I am so reluctant to put the police 
on this? If her visits were innocent, why did she 
disguise herself? If they were not innocent—may 
I be forgiven if I wrong her—goodness knows what 
might come out, to add to poor Sir Robert’s dis¬ 
tress. So I’m sure it’s best to do and say nothing, 
for the moment anyhow, except to ring up as I said 
I would.” 

He returned in about twenty minutes, and found 
her at the writing-table.” 

“Thomson again. Sir Robert is going on fairly 
well, but is not allowed to see anyone but him, and 
the nurse, of course. He says he gave him my mes¬ 
sage, and he seemed very touched, and begged me 
not to dream of coming back, as I could do nothing; 

I offered to, you know—— 

“Of course, dear,” Grace assented. 



GRACE LEARNS THE NEWS 95 

“And our plan holds? We’ll be off to St. Mar¬ 
garet’s?” 

“Yes, oh, yes! let’s get away from here,” said 
Grace, with a quick little shiver, glancing round the 
room, where last night they had been so happy, but 
that had now become distasteful to her. 

“All right, sweetheart. I’ll be off to see about a 
car.” 

His quest was speedily successful, and within an 
hour they were on their way in a trim little 
two-seater. 

They were still grave and subdued when they set 
forth, as was inevitable, but the shadow lifted from 
them, and their spirits rose as they sped on their 
way. 

It was a glorious morning, more like April than 
November, for the gale had blown itself out during 
the night: the sun shone in a cloudless sky, the 
blue sea was flecked with dancing white wave¬ 
lets, the keen, clear air exhilarating as champagne, 
and overhead larks soared to sing in heavenly 
chorus. 

“Isn’t it a dear, quaint, up-and-down little place?” 
said Grace, as they neared the village and slowed 
down. “Oh, there’s the church! It’s very, very 
old, and so beautiful. Roger, I’d like to go in just 
for a few minutes.” 

“Now?” he asked, in some surprise. 

“Yes, if you don’t mind. We’ve lots of time.” 

Of course he didn’t mind, though he did wonder; 
and, after he had lovingly watched her slender figure 
mount the steps and disappear through the church¬ 
yard, he backed the car into a by-way, hailed a vil- 


96 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


lage lad and bade him keep an eye on it, and then fol¬ 
lowed her. 

She was kneeling, her face bowed on her hands in 
prayer. 

He stood still, there at the back of the church, his 
own head bowed, his eyes fixed on that kneeling fig¬ 
ure that was all the world to him; and as slow min¬ 
utes passed the sacred peace of the hushed and holy 
place stole into his own soul. 

Presently she rose and joined him, and hand in 
hand they went out silently into the sunshine. Her 
eyes were misty with tears, but her face was serene 
and beautiful as that of an angel. 

“I felt I must go, Roger, just for the little while,” 
she whispered. “It was for her —for poor Lady 
Rawson. Some people say we should not pray for 
the dead, but—but if it is true, and it is, that souls 
live for ever, they may know—I believe they do— 
when we who are still here, think of them gently and 
lovingly, and it may comfort them! And I’m sure 
God loves us all, His poor erring human children, 
however sinful we are, and—and that He wants us 
to think lovingly of each other.” 

Too moved for words, Roger could only look 
down at her with an almost adoring gaze. Dearly 
as he loved her, he had not realized as yet the spirit¬ 
ual strength and sweetness of her nature, so simple, 
so straightforward, and so steadfast. 

He felt strangely humble, yet strangely happy, 
and from his own heart there went up a little silent 
prayer: “God make me worthy of her!” 

“And now for dear old Miss Culpepper,” she an- 


GRACE LEARNS THE NEWS 


97 


nounced almost gaily as they settled themselves in 
the car once more, and Roger dismissed the at¬ 
tendant lad with a generous tip. u Oh, I do hope 
we shall find her at home, and that she can put us 
up. Down the hill, Roger, and the first turning. 
I’ll tell you where to stop.” 


CHAPTER XI 


HALCYON DAYS 

I T was the prettiest white cottage imaginable, ap¬ 
proached from the road by a flight of irregular 
steps and a steep little garden, now gay with 
chrysanthemums. 

“It’s like one of those toy ‘weather houses,’ ” said 
Roger as they mounted the steps. “Does a little 
lady come out on fine days and a little man on wet 
ones?” 

“I don’t know anything about a little man, but 
you’ll see the little lady directly—at least, I hope so. 
She’s just like the cottage; you couldn’t imagine any¬ 
one else owning it! Oh ! did I warn you that she’s a 
regular Mrs. Malaprop, bless her? She loves using 
long words, French for preference, and they’re in¬ 
variably the wrong ones, but she does it with an in¬ 
effable air of gentility, and is dreadfully offended if 
anyone laughs, so be careful! Oh ! and be sure you 
wipe your shoes as you go in, and she’ll love you for 
ever. S-sh!” 

The green door, adorned with brilliantly polished 
brass handle, knocker, and letter box, was opened 
by a small, spare, trim little woman, who might have 
stepped out of the pages of “Punch” some forty 
years ago. She wore her white hair in a closely 
curled “fringe,” neatly held in place by a fine net, 
98 


HALCYON DAYS 


99 


with an absurd little butterfly bow of black lace 
perched on the crown of her head, presumably as a 
sort of apology for a cap. The skirt of her long, 
skimpy gown of black merino was trimmed with a 
series of tiny frills of the same stuff, and had quill¬ 
ings of snowy net at the neck and wrists, and her 
black silk apron was artfully adjusted to accentuate 
the slimness of her tiny waist. Through a pair of 
gold-rimmed pince-nez her mild blue eyes scanned 
her visitors inquiringly. 

“How are you, Miss Culpepper?” said Grace, ex¬ 
tending her hand. “I wonder if you remember 
me?” 

“I ought to do, I’m sure,” said the little old lady 
graciously. “But at the moment—why, of course, 
it’s Miss Armitage! How often I have thought of 
you and your dear father. I trust Mr. Armitage is 
in good health.” She glanced at Roger, and Grace 
blushed and smiled. 

“Quite, thanks. But I’m not ‘Miss Armitage’ 
now. May I introduce my husband, Mr. Roger 
Carling? You see, we are taking a—a little holi¬ 
day, and made up our minds all in a hurry to come 
over and ask whether you could put us up for a week 
or two.” 

“Dear me—married—how romantic!” Miss Cul¬ 
pepper chirruped. “Permit me to tender my con¬ 
gratulations, my dear, to you both. And pray step 
in.” 

She led the way into the parlour on the right—a 
cosy and charming little room, spotlessly clean and 
bright. 

“I shall be delighted to accommodate you, to the 


100 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


extent of my very humble menace. As you may re¬ 
member, my dear Miss—I mean, Mrs. Carling—I 
retain no domestic during the winter months, when I 
so seldom have any guests, though I am very glad 
when they do come, like you and Mr. Armitage. 
And, do you know, I still think of that delicious 
jambon he sent me for Christmas, just after you left. 
As I wrote to him at the time, a more delicious bird 
was never brought to table! Now perhaps you 
would like to see the sleeping apartment—the large 
one over this; it is not quite ready, of course, as I 
did not expect you, but can be derangered in a very 
few minutes.” 

“We don’t want to put you about in the very 
least,” Grace explained. “We can go and get lunch 
somewhere in the village—we shall have to find a 
garage for the motor-car anyhow; it’s waiting there 
in the road—and we can come back at any time you 
like. Oh, you darling! Why, is this Caesar?” 

A magnificent black Persian cat stalked into the 
room, and stared gravely at Grace with its inscrut¬ 
able amber eyes. 

The question seemed to embarrass little Miss Cul¬ 
pepper, who, after a deprecating glance at Roger’s 
back—he was looking out of the window—mysteri¬ 
ously beckoned Grace out of the room. 

She followed, cuddling the cat, which she had 
picked up, and which lay quite quietly in her arms 
without evincing any emotion whatever. 

“It’s the same animal, my dear, whom you were so 
fond of as a kitten,” Miss Culpepper explained in a 
discreet whisper; “but unfortunately she proved to 


HALCYON DAYS 


101 


be a—a female; very embarrassing! So she is now 
inconnu as ‘Cleopatra.’ Perhaps I should not have 
said unfortunate though, for a lady near possesses 
a most beautiful Persian with whom Cleopatra—er 
—mates; and the provender are exquisite, and pro¬ 
vide quite a nice little source of additional income. 
She has two now, that I expect to dispose of for 
quite a large sum, though I do hate parting with 
them; it seems so sordid.” 

“Oh, do let me see them,” Grace pleaded, and was 
graciously invited into the kitchen, where the two 
kittens, an adorable pair, pranced to meet them. 
Cleopatra jumped down and crooned over her off¬ 
spring, and Grace promptly sat on the floor and 
gathered all three of them into her lap. 

“Most extraordinary,” murmured Miss Culpep¬ 
per, “Cleopatra evidently remembers you, after all 
this time. As a rule she never allows anyone but 
myself to caress her or the kittens; in fact, she 
usually swears at and attempts to bite any stranger 
who has the timidity to approach her. So 
unladylike!” 

“I feel quite honoured,” laughed Grace. “Of 
course you remember me and love me, don’t you, 
Cleopatra, darling? And you’ll let me have one of 
your babies. We must take one home with us, Miss 
Culpepper, if it’s old enough.” 

“Oh, yes, quite old enough, just three months 
to-day; indeed one has already gone—Caesarion— 
to the clergyman who was staying here when they 
were tiny, and bespoke him at once. It was he who 
named them. This is the other—er—male, ‘Dear 


102 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Brutus.’ Why ‘Dear’ I really don’t know, though 
naturally he is very dear to me. And his sister is 
Semiramis, because she is so melligerent. The Rev. 
Smithson—such a learned man, my dear Mrs. Carl¬ 
ing—said she would certainly grow up into a warrior 
queen. They are beautiful names, I consider— 
pathological, of course.” 

“Historical,” Grace suggested, and instantly re¬ 
pented. For Miss Culpepper drew herself up and 
spoke, gently indeed, but in a tone that conveyed a 
subtle reproof. 

“I consider ‘pathological’ the more correct. It is 
as well to be accurate even in the smallest matters, 
and I believe it is very doubtful if the originals of 
the names ever really lived.” 

“She’s priceless!” Grace declared, when she re¬ 
peated this to Roger, as she accompanied him back 
to the car, with a perfect imitation of the old lady’s 
manner. “And the dearest, kindest old soul in the 
world. Aren’t you glad we came? She’s going to 
give me all sorts of household tips, as she did when 
I was here with daddy. She’s a wonderful cook. 
So hurry back when you’ve garaged the car, and we 
shall have lunch ready.” 

“Good!” said Roger heartily. “I’m as hungry 
as a hunter. So long, darling.” 

When he returned he found Grace, enveloped in 
one of Miss Culpepper’s big cooking aprons, and 
with Dear Brutus perched on her shoulder, busily 
putting the finishing touches to the table, while a de¬ 
licious fragrance of omelette was wafted from the 
kitchen. 

A very dainty meal the resourceful old lady man- 


HALCYON DAYS 


103 


aged to serve at such short notice, and how they 
enjoyed it! 

For the time the shadow had passed from them. 
London and the Rawsons, all the tragedy and 
trouble, had receded into the far distance, and life 
seemed very fair, very joyous. They were not cal¬ 
lous—far from it; they were only a pair of lovers, 
rejoicing in each other, in the sunshine, in “the de¬ 
light of simple things, and mirth that hath no bitter 
stings!” 

It was a wonderful week-end, halcyon days of 
sheer, unalloyed happiness; an abiding memory to 
dwell on in the time to come, when the world was 
dark indeed, and even hope seemed dead. 

It was amazing how swiftly the hours sped. 
There was a shopping expedition down the village in 
the afternoon to order supplies, when the crowning 
glory of the purchases was a noble dish of big pink 
prawns, caught that very morning, and still steam¬ 
ing hot from the pot. They carried them back and 
had them for tea—a real square-meal tea, and ate 
them all, except such as were demolished by Cleo¬ 
patra, Semiramis, and Dear Brutus, who attended 
the feast and exhibited an appreciative appetite for 
fresh prawns nicely peeled and proffered. 

And how snug it was, how peaceful in the little 
parlour, with the lamp lighted and the curtains 
drawn, when Roger lounged happily in the easy 
chair beside the fire, and Grace sat at the little 
mellow-toned old Broadwood piano, and sang old 
songs, played snatches of old melodies, grave and 
gay, finishing up with Sullivan’s tender and wistful 
love duet: 


104 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


None shall part us from each other, 

One in life and death are we, 

and Roger came to her side and sang Strephon’s 
part, quite softly, for her ears alone, though if he 
could have sung with like expression on the stage, 
and to order, he would have made his fortune! 

After that there was such a silence that little Miss 
Culpepper considered it advisable to be seized with 
a fit of coughing and to make quite a business of 
opening the door when she brought the supper-tray. 

A chill breath from the world they had left be¬ 
hind swept over them indeed for a few brief minutes 
next morning, when Roger went down to the garage 
to fetch the car, and brought back three London 
papers—all he could get in the village. 

“Very little about it at all,” he said. “And noth¬ 
ing fresh. . . . The inquest was merely opened and 
adjourned for a week; and they say, ‘The police are 
following up a clue’; but they always say that.” 

“How is Sir Robert?” asked Grace. 

“Improving steadily. I heard that from Thom¬ 
son. I rang him up from the hotel. He says the 
funeral is fixed for Tuesday, at noon, and I really 
think I ought to go up for it, darling. I’m sure Sir 
Robert would like to see me, if he’s allowed to see 
anyone by then, and I could get back at night.” 

“Of course,” Grace assented gravely. “It’s 
right that you should go. Poor Sir Robert! My 
heart aches for him; and I—I feel almost ashamed 
of our happiness, Roger, when I think of his crush¬ 
ing sorrow.” 

“I know. But, after all, it wouldn’t do him any 


HALCYON DAYS 


105 


good—or her either, poor soul!—if we were to try 
to be as miserable as anything. Come along, sweet¬ 
heart, let’s get out into the sunshine. The car’s a 
regular peach, isn’t she ? And what weather! Per¬ 
fect ‘Indian summer,’ by Jove! Might have been 
made on purpose for us.” 

So they set forth for another glorious day in the 
open, over the downs and through the weald, 
splendid with the gracious, wistful beauty of late 
autumn; and back by the coast, to arrive as dusk was 
falling at their peaceful retreat. How invitingly 
homelike the little room was with its cheerful fire, 
and Miss Culpepper and the cats coming out to the 
porch to welcome them. 

“And what’s the programme for to-morrow?” 
asked Roger after supper, as they sat together in 
lazy content on the couch drawn up by the fire, Cleo¬ 
patra and Semiramis ensconced on Grace’s lap, Dear 
Brutus snuggling on Roger’s shoulder. 

“I want to go to the early Celebration in the 
morning,” said Grace. “I nearly always do, you 
know, and to-morrow-” 

“Me too, beloved,” he answered softly; and she 
slipped her hand in his. 

There was no need for further speech; on this 
great point there had long been perfect understand¬ 
ing, perfect sympathy between them. 

And so, in the fresh, sweet dawn of an exquisite 
morning, they went up the hill together to the little 
church, and with full hearts made their “sacrifice of 
praise and thanksgiving.” As they knelt before the 
altar, I am sure they silently renewed those solemn 
vows they had made three short days before; as I 



106 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


am very sure also that Grace’s gentle soul sent up 
a fervent prayer for that of Paula Rawson, the beau¬ 
tiful woman whose fate had been so strange and 
sudden and terrible. 

The glory of the risen sun shone on their happy 
faces when they came forth, and life was beautiful 
beyond words. They would have liked to share 
their happiness with the whole world. As that was 
impossible they shared it with little Miss Culpepper, 
and took her, snugly sandwiched between them, in 
the car to Canterbury. It was Roger’s idea, joy¬ 
fully acclaimed by Grace. 

“She’d love it; she told me yesterday she had 
never been in a motor-car in her life, and I thought 
then we must take her for some runs. She may 
think Sunday excursions wicked; but we’ll ask her.” 

Never was an old lady more gratified by an 
invitation. 

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Carling and Mr. Carling, 
there is nothing, I assure you nothing, would give 
me greater pleasure!” she cried; “but”—Grace 
glanced at Roger as one who would say “I told 
you so”—“but I am torn between inclination and 
duty. The cathedral! It is so many, many years 
since I visited that beautiful vane; it would indeed 
be a privilege to do so once more, and in such a posi¬ 
tively uxorious manner. But your dinner—there 
will be no one to prepare it!” 

So that was the only objection, easily disposed of. 

“We’re going to dine at Canterbury, of course,” 
said Roger; and Grace reminded her that the 
pheasant would keep till to-morrow and there was 
plenty in the house for supper. 


HALCYON DAYS 


107 


Her housewifely scruples set at rest, in what a de¬ 
lightful flutter of excitement she retired to “dress,” 
reappearing enveloped in quite an assortment of an¬ 
cient shawls and a long ostrich feather “boa,” the 
floating ends of which, with those of the gauze scarf 
adjusted around her “toque,” flapped across Roger’s 
eyes horribly when they started, till Grace twined 
them snugly round the old lady’s neck and tucked 
the ends in securely. 

Good it was to see Miss Culpepper, proudly erect, 
beaming with benevolent condescension on such pe¬ 
destrians as they met; good to hear the ecstatic com¬ 
ments she chirped into their sympathetic ears; to 
note, when they reached the cathedral just in time 
for the service, the superb dignity with which she ad¬ 
vanced up the aisle, visibly fortified with the con¬ 
sciousness that she had “come in a motor-car.” 

Verily she had the time of her life that sunny Sun¬ 
day, as she told Grace, with tears in her kind old 
eyes, after dinner at the hotel, when Roger had gone 
to bring round the car for the homeward run. 

“I’ve never had such a treat in all my long life 
before!” she cried. “And nobody has ever been so 
good to me as you two dear young people. I don’t 
know how to begin to thank you, only—God bless 
you both and send you the rich happiness you de¬ 
serve all your lives!” Grace hugged her, and be¬ 
tween smiles and tears Miss Culpepper continued: 
“Do you know there’s only one little thing in this 
happy, happy day I’d have wished different, and 
you’ll think it silly of me. But, though the lovely 
music in the cathedral thrilled me, I did wish they 
had chosen another anthem. ‘Hear my prayer, O 


108 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Lord, incline Thine ear, consider my complaint,’ is 
most beautiful, but I couldn’t really echo it to-day, 
for I hadn’t any ‘complaint’ to make to Him. I’d 
have liked them to sing the Hallelujah Chorus, and 
I believe I should not only have stood up, but have 
joined in!” 

Happy, happy day, with never a cloud to mar it! 

Next morning the storm broke. 

Roger went down the village to fetch the papers, 
and on returning saw, with some surprise, a taxi-cab 
standing in the road below the cottage. 

In the tiny hall, almost blocking it up, stood a 
big, burly man, whom he instantly discerned as a 
policeman in plain clothes, and who greeted him with 
a civil “Good morning.” 

He had the impression that Miss Culpepper was 
fluttering nervously in the background, by the kitchen 
door, with Cleopatra beside her, staring with her 
big, luminous eyes at the intruder. 

“Do you wish to speak to me?” he asked. 

The man merely motioned towards the half-open 
parlour door, and, with a curious sense of impending 
disaster upon him, Roger entered. 

Grace was standing there, her fair face as white as 
the big cooking apron she had donned, and with her 
was a little, wiry man, a stranger. 

“This is my husband, Mr. Carling,” said Grace 
quietly. “Roger, this gentleman wishes to speak to 
you.” 

“Just so—and alone, if you please, ma’am,” said 
Snell. 


CHAPTER XII 


R 


ALONE 

OGER has been arrested for the murder of 
Lady Rawson.” 

The words repeated themselves over 
and over In Grace Carling’s brain with maddening 
persistence, as she sat perfectly still and silent, her 
hands grasping the arms of the chair, her lips firmly 
set, her eyes gazing straight in front of her. But 
for those wide, tragic eyes she might have been a 
stone figure. 

She could never afterwards clearly remember what 
happened in that brief half-hour—possibly less— 
before Roger was taken away, and she was left 
alone. 

She had made no scene—that at least was some¬ 
thing for which to be thankful; though when the de¬ 
tective said he wanted to speak to her husband alone, 
some strong instinct had forbidden her to go, and 
she had moved to Roger’s side, saying quite quietly: 

“I don’t think you can have anything to say to my 
husband that I may not hear”; and, after a mo¬ 
ment’s hesitation, Roger said: 

“My wife is quite right; I have no secrets from 
her. What is your business with me ?” 

And then—and then—the shock came, or rather 
was intensified, for when she first saw these two men 
109 


110 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


of ill-omen a strange, swift premonition told her 
what their errand was. 

So when Snell—more embarrassed than he had 
ever before felt in the execution of his duty, and 
most anxious to get the difficult business over— 
bluntly pronounced his formula, and added the cus¬ 
tomary caution as to any statement made by his 
prisoner being liable to be used as evidence against 
him, she was scarcely conscious of surprise, only of 
intense indignation. 

Roger had uttered a startled, horrified exclama¬ 
tion, and she involuntarily slipped her hand through 
his arm, not for support—that hand did not tremble, 
nor did she, but its pressure was eloquent. 

Her slender figure drawn to its full height, her 
grey eyes fixed steadily on Snell, she spoke, coldly, 
deliberately, in a voice that sounded in her own ears 
like that of a stranger: 

“How utterly preposterous. You have made a 
great, a terrible mistake.” 

“Excuse me, madam; I have to do my duty. I 
would have spared you if I could, but you would 
stay, you know,” Snell protested, watching her as 
closely and relentlessly as she watched him, for the 
moment leaving Roger Carling to Evans, who had 
silently entered the room and taken up his position 
beside him. 

Having had a good deal of experience with women 
under such circumstances, Snell fully expected a vi¬ 
olent hysterical outburst, but, as he afterwards con¬ 
fided to his wife, he had never seen such marvellous 
self-possession as Mrs. Carling displayed. 

“I never felt sorrier for anyone in my life, nor 


ALONE 


111 


ever felt a greater respect for anyone. She was 
simply splendid! And it was rough on her, poor 
gi 1 *!—on their honeymoon and all; and of course she 
had nothing in the world to do with the crime. And 
she loves him and believes in him utterly. Mark 
my words, she’ll believe in him to the very end, what¬ 
ever that may be.” 

“Perhaps he didn’t do it,” suggested Mrs. Snell. 

“That’s to be proved at the trial,” said Snell. 
Not even to the wife of his bosom would he commit 
himself to any expression of opinion on the guilt or 
innocence of any prisoner. That was outside his 
duty. 

And he was right. The control Grace imposed 
on herself, and that helped Roger to maintain his 
during the ordeal, was nothing less than heroic. 

She announced her intention of accompanying 
them back to London, but accepted Snell’s decision 
that that was undesirable—in fact not permissible— 
and arranged to settle up and follow in the course of 
the day. 

“When and where shall I see you, Roger?” she 
asked. “This—this dreadful mistake will be put 
right, of course, but I suppose it will be a few days 
at least—and till then ?” 

“That will be all right,” Snell interposed. “Mr. 
Carling’s solicitors will arrange everything, and you 
will be able to see him at any reasonable time for 
the present.” 

“Thank you. Who are your solicitors, Roger?” 

“The only firm / know anything about are Twin- 
nings—Sir Robert’s solicitors, you know; but they’ve 
never done any business for me personally. I’ve 


112 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


never needed it. I’d better communicate with them. 
I suppose I shall have facility for that?” he added, 
glancing at Snell. “I don’t know anything about 
these things, or the procedure, myself.” 

“You’ll have every facility,” Snell assured him. 
“But though I don’t want to hurry you, we must be 
getting off now—within ten minutes, in fact—and 
you’ll want to take some necessaries with you. Per¬ 
haps Mrs. Carling will put them together? I’m 
sorry, madam, but I must not lose sight of Mr. Carl¬ 
ing. Duty’s duty!” 

“I will fetch them,” she said, and exchanged a 
long, silent glance with Roger ere she left him. Still 
she would not—dare not—trust herself to think of 
anything but the task of the moment, and swiftly 
collected and packed in his bag all he would be likely 
to want—“only for a few days” she told herself, to 
sustain her courage—and returned to the parlour 
within the stipulated time. 

Even when the moment of parting came, and she 
clung to him in a last embrace, she did not weep. 

“Good-bye, my darling, till to-morrow,” he said 
in a hoarse, broken whisper. “It will be all right in 
a few days; try not to fret—to worry. Oh, my 
God, how hard it is!” 

“I will be brave,” she whispered back—“brave as 
you are, my own, my beloved. God guard you, and 
show your innocence before all the world—soon!” 

She stood in the porch and watched him, all her 
soul in her eyes, managed even to smile and waft a 
last kiss to him as he leaned forward for one final 
glimpse. Then, as the sound of the motor died 
away in the distance, she went back to the parlour 


ALONE 


113 


and sat down, in dumb, stricken, tearless misery. 

All the time little Miss Culpepper had fluttered 
about in a state of increasing agitation, peering out 
of the kitchen door at intervals, retreating swiftly 
when she feared she might be discovered, and keep¬ 
ing Cleopatra and her kittens from intruding on the 
colloquy. Now she fluttered in and out the par¬ 
lour, looking wistfully and anxiously at that still 
figure in the chair, but not daring to speak to her. 
At last she could bear it no longer, but fell on her 
knees beside Grace, putting her thin old arms round 
her and crying: “Oh, my dear, my dear, don’t sit 
like that; you frighten me so! Say something, do 
something; tell me what’s the matter; let me do 
something to help! Oh, you’re as cold as ice—my 
poor darling!” 

Grace shivered; she was indeed icy cold, though 
she had not been conscious of that or of anything 
else but those words that whirled round and round 
in her brain, and that now at last she uttered aloud 
with stiff, white lips. 

“Roger has been arrested. They say he mur¬ 
dered Lady Rawson.” 

Miss Culpepper uttered a shrill little scream. 

“Oh, my dear child, how wicked, how positively 
supposterous. Not the murder, of course—no, no, 

I don’t mean that, it was wicked—but to say that 
dear young gentleman could have done such a thing 
—he to whom Cleopatra has taken as she has never 
taken to any human being of the sterner sex, not 
even to the Reverend Smithson, though he is such a 
learned man. And I trust Cleopatra’s common 
sense against all the judges and juries in the world! 


114 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


But, my darling girl, you must excuse me—I can’t 
help it—for you are a darling and so is your dear, 
handsome young husband—no wonder you are so 
distressed! But don’t sit like that! Weep, my 
love, weep; it will ease your poor heart! As for 
me, if I’d only known what those meridians of the 
law were after I’d—I’d let them have a piece of my 
mind! I’ll let them have it yet, that I will!” 

She actually shook her small fists, in imagination 
threatening Snell and his fellow-“meridian” with 
physical violence; and so irresistibly comic did the 
staunch little creature appear that the tension in 
Grace’s overwrought brain snapped, and she laughed 
aloud—laughter that brought blessed tears—and 
for a time they just clung together and sobbed, till 
gradually she regained a measure of real composure, 
quite different from that frozen, unnatural calm she 
had forced herself to maintain. 

She told Miss Culpepper as much of the circum¬ 
stances as seemed necessary. It was a relief to do 
so now, and the old lady punctuated the recital with 
exclamations and comments. 

“I saw something about a murder in those news¬ 
papers you lent me on Saturday,” she confessed; 
“but I really did not read it. I very seldom do read 
newspapers; they are so full of cunards in these days 
that one really does not know what to believe. And 
of course I never associated it with you two—how 
could I ? And on your wedding day! Of course, I 
knew you were only just married; though I pretended 
I didn’t, as you didn’t tell me in so many words. 
And to think of the honeymoon ending like this !” 

“It hasn’t ended,” said Grace. “Roger will be, 


ALONE 


115 


he must be, released—soon; to-day, perhaps. But 
I must be up and doing—I must get back to Town 
by the next train; and I must go to the garage and 
see about having the car sent back to Dover.” 

There were, indeed, many things to see to, and 
eagerly the old lady helped. Lovingly, while Grace 
had gone on her errand, she prepared a dainty meal, 
and stood over her, coaxing and insisting till she 
made a pretence at least of eating. 

“I can’t bear to think of you travelling alone,” 
she declared. “I wish I could go with you, though 
it is many years since I went to London. But if I 
can be of any help, of any comfort, my dear, be sure 
to let me know and I will shut up the cottage and 
come to you at once. And there’s ‘Dear Brutus’— 
you won’t want to take him with you, of course, but 
the very moment you are ready for him I will send 
him up—a little present with my love, for I couldn’t 
think of selling him to you. He may be a little con¬ 
somme, and bring you luck! Who knows?” 

She wished she could have taken the old lady with 
her, but that was impossible. It was far more of a 
wrench to leave her and the cottage—that tiny abode 
of peace and love and goodwill where she and her be¬ 
loved had had those three days of unalloyed happi¬ 
ness—than it had been to leave the home of her girl¬ 
hood, whither she must now return, for to-day at 
least. 

A horror of great loneliness came over her as she 
drove to the station, and she strove against it 
valiantly. She must put aside all selfish considera¬ 
tions, and be brave and calm—for Roger’s sake. 

From the station she sent a wire to her mother, 


116 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


and one to Winnie Winston, giving the time of her 
arrival at Charing Cross. 

There was no one to meet her, but she was not 
surprised; Winnie would probably be out when the 
wire was delivered; it was very unlikely that her 
mother would trouble to come to the station, and 
her father she knew was lecturing at Edinburgh 
this week. 

The sight of the contents bills of the evening 
papers, all flaunting the news of Roger’s arrest, hurt 
her like a physical blow; but she could not obtain a 
copy of any paper; the next edition was due, and was 
evidently being eagerly awaited. 

After a moment’s thought she decided to drive 
first to the solicitor Roger had mentioned, whose 
offices were in Westminster. There a fresh shock 
awaited her. 

She was shown at once into the private room of 
the senior partner, Mr. Twining, who received her 
very kindly, with a grave attitude of pity that was 
somehow disconcerting, and her heart sank as she 
listened to what he had to say. 

“Yes, Mr. Carling rang us up from—er—when 
he arrived in Town, and we immediately furnished 
him with the address of a most reliable firm, Messrs. 
Spedding and Straight, who, as we have since ascer¬ 
tained, have undertaken to arrange for his defence. 
It is, of course, absolutely impossible for us to do 
so, under the circumstances, as we are acting for 
Sir Robert Rawson.” 

It flashed to her mind instantly what this meant, 
and she spoke impulsively. 

“Mr. Twining, surely Sir Robert does not for a 


ALONE 


117 


moment believe my husband is guilty of this—this 
awful thing?” He did not answer, and his eyes 
avoided her steady, searching gaze. “No one who 
really knows Roger could believe it for a moment,” 
she continued; “and Sir Robert knows and loves 
him: they have been almost like father and son!” 

“Quite so; but this is a most painful and compli¬ 
cated matter. I cannot explain more fully, but you 
will realize in time that we could not come to any 
other decision. And I assure you, Mrs. Carling, 
that with Messrs. Spedding your husband’s defence 
will be in the best hands.” 

“Will you give me their address? I will go to 
them now.” 

“With pleasure. I will write it for you.” 

He took a sheet of paper, wrote the address, and 
handed it to her, saying: 

“But if you will be advised by me you will not go 
to them till to-morrow. It’s getting late now, and 
you cannot possibly learn anything or do anything 
to-night. In fact, their office will be closed. Good¬ 
bye, and please believe that I sympathize with you 
most deeply, and would gladly do anything in my 
power to help you,” he added, and himself escorted 
her through the clerks’ office and to the waiting cab. 

He was sorry for her —would help her if he could, 
but not Roger! He, too, like Sir Robert, believed 
him guilty. She knew it as if he had said so openly. 

“When you see anyone selling evening papers, 
stop, I want one,” she instructed the cab-driver, and 
at the next corner he pulled up for the purpose. 

It was the final edition with half the front page 
occupied by the latest news of the “Rawson Murder 


118 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Mystery,” which included a brief account of Roger’s 
arrest, and also the full story of the secret service 
papers that had been stolen and restored, very much 
as Roger had narrated it to her, with no hint as to 
the actual contents of the papers, merely stating that 
they were of great international importance; but 
with the account of Lady Rawson’s visit to River- 
court Mansions, and some picturesque notes on Cac- 
ciola and his Russian protege. 

What was it Roger had said the other day when 
he broke the news to her? That it was far more 
important that all information about those papers 
should be suppressed than that the murderer of 
Lady Rawson should be traced. Then who could 
have divulged the secret, given it to the Press? 

She could scarcely believe her eyes as she saw a 
subheading—“Interview with Sir Robert Rawson” 
—over a few brief paragraphs revealing the 
astounding fact that Sir Robert himself had author¬ 
ized and endorsed the publication! 

She was still brooding painfully over this revela¬ 
tion when she reached her destination—the big, com¬ 
fortable suburban house she had left as a bride such 
a few days before, that now seemed like a lifetime. 

The trim maid who opened the door uttered a 
little compassionate exclamation. 

“Oh, miss—I mean, ma’am—isn’t it dreadful? 
And how ill you look! Madam’s in the drawing¬ 
room. Shall I pay the cab?” 

“No. Ask him to wait,” said Grace, though 
why she said so she did not know. 

She went swiftly through the hall, entered the 
drawing-room, and closed the door behind her. 


ALONE 


119 


Her mother was seated by the fire—a remarkably 
pretty woman, with fair hair and turquoise-blue eyes, 
who looked younger than her daughter to-day, for 
Grace, white cheeked and hollow eyed, had aged 
visibly during these terrible hours. 

“Mother!” she said piteously. 

Mrs. Armitage rose, throwing down the news¬ 
paper she had been absorbed in—an earlier edition 
of the one Grace still clutched—and came towards 
her daughter. 

Her pretty, pink-and-white face wore a most peev¬ 
ish, disagreeable expression, and there was no trace 
of sympathy in her hard, blue eyes. 

“So you’ve got here, Grace. I had your wire, 
but I simply couldn’t come to meet you. I was too 
terribly upset, and your father’s away. What an 
awful disgrace for us all. Roger must have been 
mad—raving mad !” 

Grace threw up her hand, as if to ward off a blow. 

“Mother!” she cried, “what do you mean? You 
don’t—you can’t think that my Roger is a-” 

She could not bring herself to utter the word. 
But Mrs. Armitage could. 

“A murderer! Of course he is. There’s not a 
shadow of doubt about it. He knew poor Lady 
Rawson had those wretched papers, and followed 
and stabbed her as he couldn’t get them any other 
way; and then had the nerve to come on and be mar¬ 
ried to you—to my daughter! No wonder he was 
so late, and looked so disreputable. I never liked 
him, I never trusted him—you know I didn’t; but I 
never dreamed that he was capable of such a hor¬ 
rible thing. As I say, he must have been mad, but 



120 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


that doesn’t make it any better for us; and what on 
earth we are to do I don’t know! If only-” 

“Stop!” cried Grace, so imperatively that Mrs. 
Armitage recoiled. “If you or anyone else say my 
husband committed this murder you lie!” 

The elder woman’s blue eyes flashed, her voice 
rang out shrilly. 

“How dare you speak to me like that! I say he 
did do it; and he’ll hang for it—and serve him right 
for disgracing you and your family. Where are you 
going?” 

“Out of this house,” said Grace, and stumbled 
into the hall, where the maid lingered by the open 
outer door, stumbled blindly forward and almost 
fell into the arms of Winnie Winston, who arrived, 
breathless, on the doorstep. 

“Grace! Oh, my darling girl! I got the wire 
too late to meet you, so rushed on here!” 

Grace clutched her, searched her face with an¬ 
guished eyes. 

“Winnie, tell me the truth. You don’t believe 
my Roger did—it?” 

“Believe it? I should think not, indeed! Who 
could believe it who knows him?” said Winnie 
staunchly. 

“God bless you for that, Winnie,” cried Grace 
brokenly. “Oh, my dear, take me out of this— 
anywhere, anywhere!” 



CHAPTER XIII 


AUSTIN’S THEORY 

4 4 T F I hadn’t turned up just at that very moment, 
I I believe Grace would have died on the door- 

JL step. I hope there’s not another woman in 
the world would have behaved so abominably as 
Mrs. Armitage; but it is just like her. I never could 
imagine how she came to have such a daughter as 
Grace! But of course she takes after her father— 
the professor’s a dear. But what a life the pair of 
them have had with that horrid little creature!” 

Winnie Winston spoke in an emphatic undertone, 
for the walls of the Chelsea flat were thin, and in 
the adjoining room Grace was in bed, worn out and 
fast asleep. 

Winnie had insisted on administering hot soup 
and a full dose of aspirin, and sat beside the ex¬ 
hausted girl, holding her hand, stroking her aching 
forehead, cherishing her with all womanly endear¬ 
ments, till, between them, she and Mother Nature, 
and the beneficent drug brought blessed sleep and 
oblivion to the tortured brain and heart. 

Then Winnie stole away, and presently, as he so 
often did, Austin Starr turned up, to whom she 
poured out her indignation at Mrs. Armitage’s cal¬ 
lous conduct. 

“I always guessed she could be a holy terror if 

121 


122 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


she chose. Though she has always been mighty 
civil to me,” said Austin. 

“Of course. She always is to men, and most of 
them think she’s an angel. Why, she made a dead 
set at Roger when they first knew him, and was fu¬ 
rious when she found he wasn’t taking any, and that 
it was Grace he was in love with. She’s been sniffy 
with them both ever since—mean little cat! What 
do you suppose she said to Grace at the very last 
moment before she went to the church the other 
day?” 

“Something sweet and maternal,” suggested Aus¬ 
tin sarcastically. 

“I don’t think! She came into Grace’s room, 
preening herself like a canary—the first time she’d 
been near her to my knowledge, and I got there 
pretty early to help Grace dress. Mrs. Armitage 
just looked her up and down and said, ‘Really, 
Grace, you look like a corpse; white never did suit 
you. Hadn’t you better make up a bit?’ I could 
have shaken her! And when there was that dread¬ 
ful delay at the church she never even came through 
to the vestry with us, but was only fussing and fum¬ 
ing because the Rawsons hadn’t come. While now, 
if you please, she’s made up her nasty little mind 
that Roger is guilty and is going to be hanged, and 
had the fiendish cruelty to blurt it out to Grace the 
moment she arrived. It was enough to kill her!” 

“Sure,” conceded Austin gravely. “I’m not mak¬ 
ing any excuse for Mrs. Armitage—her conduct was 
just abominable—but we’ve got to face facts, Miss 
Winnie; and the great fact is that I’m afraid a good 
few people are of the same opinion.” 


AUSTIN’S THEORY 


123 


Winnie sprang up, a passionate figure, and pointed 
an accusing forefinger at him. 

“Austin Starr, you don’t dare to sit there and 
tell me that you believe your friend Roger Carling 
is a murderer!” 

His clever, good-tempered face—a face that in¬ 
spired confidence in most people—betrayed embar¬ 
rassment, distress, perplexity; his silence infuriated 
Winnie. 

“Answer me!” she ejaculated in an imperative 
whisper, emphasized by a stamp of her foot. 

“No, I do not,” he said slowly. “I never will. 
But the case is very black against him, and there’s a 
lot of excuse for the people who do think it.” 

She gave a little sigh of relief. 

“I’m glad you don’t, anyhow; for if you did I’d 
never willingly speak to you again.” 

Austin rose, and stood beside her, looking down 
earnestly at her charming, animated face. 

“I’d give my right hand, I’d give ten years of my 
life at its best—Winnie, I’d give everything dearest 
to me in the world except the hope of winning you— 
to be able to clear Roger Carling from this charge,” 
he said slowly. 

For weeks, for months she had known in her heart 
that Austin Starr loved her, had known too that she 
loved him, but never before had he spoken like this, 
never had there been any sentimental passages be¬ 
tween them, only a beautiful frank friendship, that 
after all is the very best foundation on which a man 
and a woman can build the love that lasts! 

And now—though how it came about neither of 
them could have said—her hands were in his, he 


124 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


drew her, unresisting to his arms, and their lips met 
for the first time. 

A wonderful moment for them both, when, with¬ 
out another word, he knew his hope was fulfilled— 
that he had already won her. It was excusable that, 
for a few moments, they almost forgot those other 
hapless lovers, their nearest friends, now so tragi¬ 
cally parted. Yet they soon remembered and re¬ 
sumed counsel, with just one little difference that 
meant a lot to them—that whereas before they had 
sat facing each other, one each side the fire-place, 
they were now side by side. 

“Can’t you do anything to bring light on it all, 
Austin?” she asked. 

He passed his hand perplexedly over his sleek 
hair. 

“I mean to do everything I can, dear, but-” 

“Haven’t you any theory?” 

“I’ve had quite a lot, and tried to follow them up, 
but they won’t wash—not one. I felt mighty un¬ 
easy when I found Lady Rawson had been to your 
old maestro’s flat and that Roger had followed her 
there.” 

“Did he! When did you find that out?” 

“The same night, just after Snell, the detective, 
came here, and asked so many questions. I went 
straight to the flat.” 

“You never told me!” 

“I never told anyone; but I soon found that Snell 
knew all about it too, and as he kept silence so did I. 
Though what I couldn’t make out was why Roger 
went on her track like that, when he had so little 
time to spare. It was an utter mystery till I got the 



AUSTIN’S THEORY 


125 


clue when the news came through about those secret 
papers, and I went straight to Sir Robert and saw 
him. It was he who sent it; Snell must have known 
it all the time and suppressed it—never gave even 
me a hint.” 

“Then you wrote the ‘interview’? I thought so. 
Did Sir Robert say anything else? What does he 
think?” 

“That’s the worst of it. He is absolutely con¬ 
vinced that his wife was murdered by Roger, and is 
implacable against him. That’s not to be wondered 
at, with the poor thing still lying dead in that great, 
silent house. The funeral is to-morrow, and as I 
can’t go to both, I shall go there instead of to the 
court to hear the case opened against Roger.” 

“Oh, Austin, why? It would be a comfort to him 
and to Grace too, to have you there!” 

“Yes, but I’ve a queer sort of feeling that at the 
funeral I may get some clue that would be of value. 

I can’t explain it, but there it is. And anyhow the 
case will surely be adjourned to-morrow. They 
can’t do anything else. It was terrible to see Sir 
Robert to-day. He is making a wonderful recovery 
physically, and was sitting up in a wheel-chair, 
though he’s paralysed in the lower limbs, and I doubt 
if he’ll ever walk again. But his brain is clear 
enough, and his animus against Roger is simply aw¬ 
ful. The queer thing is that he acknowledges that 
those papers were of such supreme importance that 
—well honestly, I gathered the impression that if 
anyone but his own wife had been murdered in order 
to recover them he’d have considered the crime jus¬ 
tifiable and tried to hush it up. The things we’re 


126 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


most up against are that Roger undoubtedly was 
there on the scene, and that he was the one person 
concerned who knew the contents of the papers and 
was most interested in getting them back to Sir Rob¬ 
ert. You and I, and poor Mrs. Carling herself, are 
certain he did not commit the murder—just because 
we know him. But the question is—Who did?” 

“It’s curious that the maestro should be mixed up 
in it,” mused Winnie. 

“Have you seen him since?” 

“No, there was no reason why I should.” 

“I have, and Boris Melikoff too—this afternoon. 
I remembered him—Melikoff—when I saw him 
again. I met him here some months back, in the 
summer.” 

She nodded. 

“That Sunday night, when he sang so divinely. 
It’s the only time I’ve seen him. A handsome boy, 
but there’s something queer and unbalanced about 
him, though I believe the maestro cares for him 
more than for anyone else alive. Grace was here 
that night, too—not Roger; it was when he was 
abroad with the Rawsons. Why, Austin, could it 
have been him, Melikoff—in jealousy? I could im¬ 
agine him doing anything!” 

Starr shook his head. 

“No. He’s ruled out personally. He was down 
at Birmingham. But I’m going to cultivate him as¬ 
siduously, and, if possible, his compatriots who for¬ 
gather with him at Cacciola’s and elsewhere. I be¬ 
lieve that’s the direction in which the truth will be 
found. Snell doesn’t. He is sure he’s got a clear, 
straightforward case, and that his duty’s finished!” 


AUSTIN’S THEORY 


127 


Winnie frowned thoughtfully. 

“You think Lady Rawson and Boris were mem¬ 
bers of a secret society?” 

“Sure!” 

“And that one of them watched, and followed, 
and killed her?” 

“Possibly.” 

“Then why didn’t he keep the papers?” 

“That’s the snag. But suppose he or she—it 
might have been a woman—didn’t want the papers, 
that it was a personal vendetta? That’s the line I 
mean to follow now.” 

“It sounds quite likely,” she agreed. “How 
clever of you, Austin. But how are you going to set 
about it?” 

“Can’t say yet, dear. I must feel my way 
somehow.” 

“Perhaps something fresh and helpful will come 
out in court to-morrow,” said Winnie hopefully. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE GIRL AT THE GRAVE 

T HE beautiful little Russian church was filled 
to the very doors for the solemn and 
stately ceremonial of Paula Rawson’s fu¬ 
neral service. Many representatives of royalty 
were there, Lord Warrington and several of his 
staff, cabinet ministers, ambassadors, peers—every¬ 
one who was “anyone” in the innermost circle of 
London society seemed to be present, except Sir 
Robert Rawson himself. 

And yet to Austin Starr’s acutely sympathetic and 
impressionable mind it seemed that there were no 
mourners there; that all these distinguished people 
had assembled as a mere conventional duty, an ex¬ 
pression of conventional respect and sympathy for 
the bereaved husband; that they cared nothing for 
the dead woman lying there in her coffin, under the 
magnificent purple pall. She was even lonelier in 
death than she had been in life. 

The impression was confirmed when at last the 
service was over, and the congregation emerged into 
the gloom and mud of the streets, for it was a damp, 
dark, dreary morning. 

Crowds of sightseers thronged the pavements out¬ 
side, waiting and watching, palpably animated by 
their curiosity to witness one of the acts in this sen- 
128 


THE GIRL AT THE GRAVE 


129 


sational drama of real life that had already proved 
so thrilling, and that had yet to be played out. 

There were more crowds outside the cemetery 
gates, through which only members of the funeral 
party were admitted; and open expressions of sur¬ 
prise and disappointment were exchanged at the 
smallness of the cortege: only a couple of motor-cars 
and some half-dozen taxicabs followed the flower¬ 
laden hearse. 

“She doesn’t seem to have had any personal 
friends,” remarked Bowden, one of the reporters 
who had shared Austin’s taxi. “I should have 
thought some of the big pots—or of Sir Robert’s 
relatives—would have had the decency to come on. 
There’s Twining, the lawyer—who’s the old man 
beside him ?” 

“Sir Robert’s valet—sort of confidential attend¬ 
ant. His name’s Thomson,” said Austin. 

Thomson, decorous and unperturbed as usual, ap¬ 
peared in fact to be acting as a sort of major-domo, 
and was giving low-voiced instructions to the under¬ 
taker’s men as they deftly removed the masses of 
flowers that covered the coffin. One of them handed 
him a large heart fashioned of purple blossoms, 
which he carried carefully in both hands, as he 
moved to a position close to the open grave, and to 
the priests in their imposing vestments. 

“Who are the others?” whispered Starr’s com¬ 
panion. “Servants too? They look like foreign¬ 
ers. Didn’t see ’em at the church.” 

He indicated two groups that had assembled each 
side the grave, from which the reporters stood a 
little apart. 


130 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“Don’t know,’* Austin returned curtly, with a 
gesture imposing silence. 

That was not entirely true; for with the group on 
the right, some eight or nine poorly clad men and 
women, with white, earnest, grief-stricken faces, was 
Boris Melikoff, holding in his right hand a single 
branch of beautiful crimson lilies. 

“Russian refugees, and they are the real mourn¬ 
ers,” Austin said to himself, and scanned each face 
in turn searchingly. Did any one of them know the 
grim secret he was determined to discover? Could 
any one of them, man or woman, be the actual mur¬ 
derer? It seemed unlikely—even impossible—as he 
noted their sorrow, restrained, indeed, with touch¬ 
ing dignity, and therefore apparently the more deep 
and sincere. 

He turned his gaze on the other group—three 
persons only, a man and two women. The man was 
Cacciola, a stately, impressive figure, his fine head 
bared, his long, grey locks stirred by the chill, damp 
breeze. His dark eyes were fixed anxiously on his 
beloved Boris, but he showed no other sign of 
emotion. 

The short woman who clung weeping to his arm, 
her face concealed by an enormous black-bordered 
handkerchief, was undoubtedly his housekeeper, old 
Giulia. 

And the third? Austin caught his breath quickly 
as he looked at her, just managing to check the in¬ 
voluntary exclamation that rose to his lips. 

She was one of the most beautiful creatures he 
had ever seen, quite young, probably not more than 
seventeen, Italian certainly; no other country could 


THE GIRL AT THE GRAVE 


131 


produce that vivid, passionate type, that exquisite 
contour of cheek and throat, that delicate olive skin, 
birthright of daughters of the sun, those wonderful, 
tawny eyes shadowed by the long, black lashes. 

She was dressed in deep mourning, with a volumi¬ 
nous black veil flung back from her face and falling 
nearly to the hem of her skirt, but that sombre garb 
was the only sign of grief about her; it seemed to en¬ 
hance rather than dim her radiant youth. 

There was something triumphant, almost insolent, 
about her, on such a scene. She stood erect, her 
graceful head thrown back a little, her full, curved 
lips slightly parted, her eyes, like those of Cacciola, 
fixed on Boris Melikoff with an ardent, passionate, 
self-revealing gaze. She seemed utterly oblivious of 
every one and everything else, and as he watched her 
Austin Starr was momentarily oblivious of every 
one but her. 

He was only vaguely aware that the priest’s so¬ 
norous voice ceased; but a moment later he was 
startled by a swift change in the girl’s face. It 
darkened, as a summer sky sometimes darkens at 
the advent of a thunder-cloud; her black eyebrows 
contracted, so did her red lips, the love-light van¬ 
ished from her eyes; he could have sworn that they 
flashed red. For a moment the face was trans¬ 
formed to that of a fiend incarnate, obsessed by 
anger, hatred, jealousy. 

Instinctively he looked around to see what had 
caused this extraordinary emotion, and saw that 
something had happened by the grave. The Rus¬ 
sian group had closed up around Melikoff, towards 
whom the priests and Mr. Twining had turned as if 


132 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


in shocked remonstrance, while the men who were in 
the very act of lowering the coffin had paused, and 
the great purple heart of flowers lay, face down¬ 
wards, right on the margin of the moss-lined grave. 

“What’s up?” he asked the man next him—he 
whom he had silenced a few minutes before. 

“Didn’t you see? The old man laid the heart 
on the coffin just at the last moment, and that tall, 
dark, foreign chap stepped forward, chucked it 
aside, and put those red lilies he had on it. The 
others pulled him back, and—look—he’s crying or 
fainting or something. Queer, eh?” 

Even as he spoke Thomson, who alone seemed to 
have retained his composure, lifted the heart and re¬ 
placed it, but below the lilies, and signed to the men 
to proceed with their task. 

The whole thing passed in a few seconds, the 
priest proceeded with the last sentences, and pro¬ 
nounced the benediction, and Starr, his brain awhirl 
with wild conjectures, looked once more at the girl. 

She was standing with bowed head and downcast 
eyes, in an attitude of reverence, her hands clasped 
on her breast, and he wondered if his eyes had de¬ 
ceived him just now. Then he noticed that one of 
her black gloves was split right across—plain to see 
even at that distance, for her white hand gleamed 
through the rent—and knew he had not been mis¬ 
taken. She had clenched her hands in that spasm of 
fury. The glove was evidence ! 

She loved Boris Melikoff; she hated that dead 
woman with a hatred that even the grave could not 
mitigate. 

Was this the clue he sought? Who was she? 


THE GIRL AT THE GRAVE 


133 


What was her connection with Cacciola—with Meli- 
koff? He must learn that without delay. 

Cacciola was already hastening towards Boris and 
his friends, while the girl remained with Giulia, and 
Austin would have followed, but was intercepted by 
Mr. Twining, the lawyer, who had held a brief col¬ 
loquy with Thomson, and now hurried up to the little 
group of journalists. 

“Mr. Starr? I believe you and these gentlemen 
are representatives of the Press? I represent Sir 
Robert Rawson on this solemn occasion, and, speak¬ 
ing in his name, I beg of you not to give any pub¬ 
licity to the painful little incident you have just wit¬ 
nessed—I mean the incident with the flowers. It 
cannot be of any public interest whatever, and its 
publication would add to the distress of Sir Robert 
and—er—possibly of others. Can I rely upon you 
not to mention it?” 

The undertaking was given, of course, and the 
journalists hurried off, with the exception of Austin, 
detained this time by Thomson. 

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I should like a few 
minutes’ conversation, and as I know you are pressed 
for time, would you accept the use of the car, one of 
Sir Robert’s that I am to return in, and permit me to 
accompany you? We can drive straight to your 
destination.” 

Austin accepted with alacrity, and they entered 
a closed car, which had come laden with flow¬ 
ers, whose heavy, sickly fragrance still clung about 
it. 

“I am sure you will excuse the liberty, sir,” said 
Thomson, in his precise, respectful way. “I would 


134 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


have liked to have a word with you yesterday when 
you called on Sir Robert, but it was impossible.” 

Austin nodded, wondering what was coming. 
Somewhat to his surprise, Thomson had been pres¬ 
ent at the interview yesterday, at Sir Robert’s own 
request, standing silently behind his master’s chair. 

“It’s about Mr. Carling, sir. I can’t think why 
the police should have arrested him of all people in 
the world—such a nice young gentleman as he is. 
He had no more to do with my lady’s death than you 
had!” 

“Of course he hadn’t. But, see here, Thomson, 
do you know anything of his movements that 
morning?” 

“Nothing at all, sir, beyond what every one else 
knows, or will know soon. But how anybody ac¬ 
quainted with him can believe it for a minute beats 
me—my master most of all. I have presumed to 
speak to him about it—I’ve been with Sir Robert 
many years, sir—but he wouldn’t hear a word, even 
from me. He says Mr. Carling followed and mur¬ 
dered my lady so as to get those papers back; he 
told the police so!” 

“I don’t believe the papers had anything to do 
with it.” 

Thomson, who was sitting forward on the edge of 
the seat, his black-gloved hands resting on his knees, 
turned his head slowly and looked at Austin side¬ 
ways, for the first time during the colloquy. 

“Nor I, sir. I hold that it was a thief, who got 
rid of the papers as soon as possible.” 

“It might have been a vendetta !” 

“I beg your pardon, sir, a what?” 


THE GIRL AT THE GRAVE 


135 


“Someone who had a grudge against Lady Raw- 
son and watched for the chance of killing her?” 

“That hadn’t struck me, sir,” said Thomson after 
a reflective pause. 

“It struck me. Do you know anything about Mr. 
Melikoff and his associates?” 

“The young gentleman who was so upset just 
now ? Only that he was related to my lady and they 
used to meet, as Sir Robert was aware,” Thomson 
replied, and Austin had the impression that he was 
lying, though why he could not imagine. “I fear 
there’s no light in that direction, sir. And Mr. 
Melikoff was not even in London at the time.” 

“I wasn’t thinking of him, but whether there 
might be someone, who knew them both,” said Aus¬ 
tin, with that girl’s beautiful, passionate face still 
vividly in remembrance. But he could not question 
the old man about her. Some instinct, which at the 
moment he did not attempt to analyse, forbade him. 

“What did you want to tell me ?” he asked bluntly, 
as the swift car was nearing Fleet Street and Thom¬ 
son had relapsed into silence. 

“I beg your pardon, sir. I was forgetting. I 
took the liberty, knowing that you are a friend of 
Mr. Carling’s, merely to ask if you could possibly 
convey my respects to him, and to the poor young 
lady his wife, and my best wishes that they will soon 
be restored to each other.” 

“I’ll do it with pleasure. Thank you, Thomson. 
Good day.” 

“Queer old coon,” he thought, as he dashed up 
to his room. “So that was all he wanted. Very 
decent of him though.” 


136 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Then he concentrated on his work. He was just 
through when Winnie rang him up, to say that 
Grace and her father had returned to the flat and 
were anxious to see him that evening, if possible. 

“I’ll come round about nine, dear—perhaps 
earlier; but I’ve to see someone first.” 

After a minute’s cogitation he rang up Cacciola. 
A woman’s voice answered—a delightful voice, rich 
and soft—in fluent English, with a mere intonation 
(it was slighter than an accent) that betrayed the 
speaker’s nationality. 

“Signor Cacciola is away from home. Will you 
give a message?” 

A dull flush rose to Austin’s face, a queer thrill 
passed through him. 

“Oh, I’m sorry! Who is speaking? Is it Sig¬ 
nora Giulia?” 

“No. She also is not present. I am Maddelena 
Cacciola. What is the message?” 

“I’d rather tell it to the maestro himself. When 
will he be home?” 

“Not till—oh, very late.” 

“Then is Mr. Melikoff home?” 

“No. He also is out with my uncle.” 

“I see. I’m sorry to have troubled you, signor- 
ina. I’ll ring up again to-morrow.” 

“Will you not tell me your name?” 

“Austin Starr. But he may not remember it.” 

“I will tell him, Mr. Starr. Good-bye.” 

He replaced the receiver, and again sat in 
thought, drumming softly with his fingers on the 
table. 


AUSTIN’S SILENCE 


137 


So she was Cacciola’s niece, and was living, or at 
least staying, with him, under the same roof as Boris 
Melikoff. 

What a voice! Worthy of her face, her eyes. 
And a beautiful name too; he found himself repeat¬ 
ing it in a whisper: “Maddelena!” 


CHAPTER XV 


AUSTIN’S SILENCE 

44 T CAN’T understand it, Winnie. It seems al- 
I most as if every one—like mother—had al- 

A ready made up their minds that—that 
Roger-” 

Grace broke off. She could not bring herself to 
utter the words “that Roger is guilty.” But Win¬ 
nie understood. 

“Nonsense, dear. There are you and I and 
George and your father and Austin on his side to 
begin with, and Mr. Spedding of course-” 

“I don’t know about Mr. Spedding,” said Grace 
slowly, her hands clasped round her knees, her trou¬ 
bled eyes fixed on the fire. “I was with him all the 
afternoon, you know—there is so much to discuss 
and to arrange—and I thought his manner very re¬ 
served, very strange, and—and uneasy.” 

“That’s only because he’s a lawyer. They’re al¬ 
ways mysterious. What did he say?” 

“Well, when I told him the simple truth as Roger 
told it me—as to why he followed Lady Rawson, 
and how it was he was so late at the church, he said, 
in quite an offhand way, that he knew all about that, 
and Roger would of course embody it in his state¬ 
ment at the proper time; but that his—Roger’s— 
unsupported account of his own movements was no 
138 



AUSTIN’S SILENCE 


139 


use as evidence! You can’t think what a shock it 
gave me, Winnie; it was the way he said it. And 
then he explained that ‘fortunately the onus of proof 
rests with the prosecution, and not with the defence: 
it is for them to prove him guilty, not for us to prove 
him innocent.’ “ ‘Fortunately ’ mind you; and in a 
tone that implied that it would be quite impossible to 
prove my darling’s innocence! Now what do you 
think of that?” 

“That it was his silly, pompous old legal way of 
talking and nothing to be upset about,” said Winnie, 
with a fine assumption of confidence. 

“Perhaps—but it hurt! He hopes to secure 
Cummings-Browne for the defence.” 

“Of course. Austin says there’s no one to touch 
him.” 

“For the defence,” Grace repeated drearily. 
“Oh, Winnie! I suppose it was foolish, but I felt 
quite sure when I went out this morning that it was 
only a matter of a few hours and Roger would be 
free; and now, nothing done; just adjourned till 

after the inquest; and then—and then- Mr. 

Spedding takes it for granted that he will be com¬ 
mitted for trial—kept in prison for weeks, months, 
till after Christmas, for the trial cannot come on till 
January. My Roger!” 

She hid her face in her hands and for the moment 
Winnie was dumb, unable to find words of comfort. 

All that long day Grace had borne herself bravely. 
Betimes in the morning she had gone to Spedding’s 
office, and thence, with the lawyer, to the police 
court, where, in a private room, she had a brief half- 
hour with Roger—only five minutes or so alone with 



140 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


him, for they had to consult with Mr. Spedding; 
but those five minutes were precious indeed. 

Roger was pale, but cheery and confident; and she 
managed to appear the same for his sake. 

“I’m staying with Winnie for the present, dear¬ 
est,” she told him. “Mother was—well, a little dif¬ 
ficult yesterday, so I thought it best. But I’m go¬ 
ing to take possession of the flat—our flat—as soon 
as possible, and get it ready for you to come home 
to, or we’ll get it ready together if you come to-day 
—to-morrow.” 

“Not so soon I fear, darling. The law moves 
cumbrously. But you can’t go to the flat alone. 
Why not stay with Winnie?” 

“I’d rather be in—our own home,” she whispered, 
“getting it straight for us both, beloved. I shall be 
happier, and you will seem nearer. Winnie will 
come in and out, of course; and you’ll come soon— 
very soon—and all will be well again, and all this 
will have passed like a bad dream!” 

She smiled at him and he at her, and none but 
themselves knew how hard it was to summon those 
brave smiles to their lips when their hearts were al¬ 
most breaking. 

Then her father arrived, the gentle, careworn, 
grey-haired professor, who had travelled all night to 
be with her; and she smiled at him, too, and sat with 
her hand in his, and Winnie Winston on the other 
side, through the ordeal of the police court; sat with 
her eyes fixed on Roger most of the time, utterly un¬ 
conscious of the scrutiny and whispered comments of 
the fashionably dressed women who had literally 


AUSTIN’S SILENCE 


141 


fought their way into the court in ghoulish anticipa¬ 
tion of sensation. 

The ordeal to-day was not prolonged, for, to the 
manifest disappointment of the assemblage of fe¬ 
male ghouls, only a brief statement of the charge 
and formal evidence of -arrest were given, and an 
adjournment asked for and granted. 

The remainder of that dark, wet day was passed 
in a series of conferences with her father, and with 
the lawyers, all more or less painful, all important; 
but throughout she managed to maintain an appear¬ 
ance of cheerfulness and confidence, telling herself 
the while that she must be brave and strong and 
clear-headed, “for Roger’s sake.” 

But now, alone with Winnie in the cosy drawing¬ 
room at Chelsea, came reaction. She felt and 
looked utterly exhausted, unutterably anxious and 
sorrow-stricken. 

Her father had gone home, but was to return 
after dinner to discuss a vital matter—how, among 
them, they were to raise money for the defence. 
Mr. Spedding had named five thousand pounds as 
the least amount necessary. It must be raised, but 
how none of them knew at present. Roger’s salary 
had been a generous one, but he had no private 
means, no near or wealthy relatives, and only a very 
few hundred pounds at call—which had seemed an 
ample reserve wherewith to start housekeeping, as 
they had already furnished the charming little flat in 
Buckingham Gate which was to be their first home. 

Grace herself had a tiny income, only just over a 
hundred a year, a legacy from an aunt, but it was 


142 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


strictly tied up under a trustee, and she could not 
touch the principal. 

Therefore this question of money was a new and 
terrible difficulty that must be surmounted some¬ 
how. 

In any other conceivable emergency they would 
have had Sir Robert Rawson to back them, with his 
enormous wealth and influence; but now he was their 
enemy, able to bring all his resources against them. 

“I can’t understand it all,” Grace resumed pres¬ 
ently. “It seems as if we had become entangled, 
in a moment, in a great web of evil. But why? 
What have we done or left undone to deserve it? 
Roger did distrust that poor thing—disliked her in 
a way, simply because of the distrust. But he would 
never have harmed her, or any living creature. 
And yet they fix on him of all people, just because he 
happened to be near at hand, and to be concerned 
with those papers!” 

“That’s only because, as Austin says, they’re just 
a lot of guys who can’t see as far as their own silly 
noses. And he’s on the trail anyhow, so cheer up, 
darling. Everything’s going to came right soon 
perhaps. You trust Austin!” 

Grace sighed and glanced restlessly at the clock. 

“I wish he’d come.” 

“Here he is—that’s his ring,” said Winnie, and 
hurried out to answer the front door bell. 

Austin it was, and she questioned him in an eager 
undertone as he took off his coat in the little hall. 

“Any news?” 

“Not yet. I’ve been on duty all day, dear. 
Only just free. I rang up Cacciola, but he wasn’t 


AUSTIN’S SILENCE 


143 


in, or I’d have gone around to his place instead of 
coming here. How’s Grace?” 

“Terribly down, though she’s been so plucky all 
day. Come along. She’s dying to see you!” 

He was shocked at the change these few days had 
wrought in Grace. As he had been prevented from 
attending the wedding he had not seen her for nearly 
a fortnight. Her radiant girlhood had vanished; 
she looked ten years older, a woman scathed by sor¬ 
row; and yet it struck him that in some subtle way 
she had become more beautiful, or rather that her 
beauty was spiritualized. 

In the brief interval before he entered she had 
pulled herself together—only with Winnie, her 
closest girl-friend, would she betray any sign of 
weakness—and greeted him with a smile that belied 
the tragic intensity of her grey eyes. 

They had exchanged but a few sentences when 
there were other arrivals—her father, and Mr. Iver¬ 
son the vicar, who somehow brought with him a 
breezy breath of comfort. Grace gave him both 
her hands. 

“Oh, padre, how good to see you.” 

“You’d have seen me before if I’d known where 
to find you; but Mrs. Armitage was out when I 
called this afternoon, and I was just going round 
again when I met your father, and here we are. 
We’ve been talking hard all the way from the bus, 
and I know all about everything so far. Roger’s 
keeping his heart up and so are you? Good!” 

“Trying to, padre ” 

“You’re going to, both of you, all the time, how¬ 
ever long or short it is. It’s a black streak, child, 


144 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


but the help and guidance will come day by day till 
you’re through it and out into the sunshine again.” 

“I’ve been telling the vicar about this money 
trouble, darling,” interposed Mr. Armitage, 
“and-” 

“Just so; and we shall soon get over that. The 
house will go into committee on ways and means, 
so come along. What’s the state of the 
exchequer?” 

“Roger has just over six hundred in the bank.” 

“Splendid, and your father can find another six 
fifty.” 

“Two hundred and fifty of that’s from himself, 
Grace,” said her father. “He insists.” 

“Now, look here, Armitage, that’s sheer breach 
of confidence, and you ought to be ashamed of your¬ 
self! Let’s be thankful I have it to spare—which 
wouldn’t have been the case a year or two ago.” 

Then Austin after a rapid mental calculation, 
chimed in: 

“Bully for you, padre! Put me down for the 
same to start, and I’ll be able to raise as much again, 
or more in a week or two. I’d give every dollar, 
every red cent I have to help clear old Roger.” 

He exchanged a swift glance with Winnie, who 
nodded delighted approval. She knew perfectly 
well that his impulsive offer meant that their own 
wedding might have to be delayed perhaps for 
years, but that weighed as nothing with Roger’s 
life and liberty in the opposite scale. 

“George and I too,” she said. “I’ve told Grace 
so already. I don’t know how much yet, Mr. Iver¬ 
son, but I’ve lots of engagements for Christmas and 



AUSTIN’S SILENCE 


145 


after—good ones, too—so I shall be quite rich.” 

The vicar beamed round at them all and rubbed 
the shining little bald circle on his crown in a way 
he had when he was pleased. That bald patch, set 
round with curly, iron-grey hair, was one of his in¬ 
nocent little vanities. It was perfectly natural, but 
it did look so like a real tonsure! 

“Now isn’t that capital! Nearly two thousand 
pounds in less than five minutes. Lots to go on 
with; and we shall get the rest long before it’s 
wanted. ‘Hope for the best and prepare to meet 
the worst,’ is an excellent maxim.” 

His incorrigible optimism was infectious; it 
cheered them all as no amount of conventional and 
lugubrious sympathy could have done; and his ac¬ 
ceptance of Roger’s innocence as a fact that need 
not even be discussed, and would assuredly be es¬ 
tablished, was an unspeakable comfort to Grace, 
whose loyal and sensitive soul had been so cruelly 
tortured by the doubt of others, and by her own 
mother’s attitude above all. 

He declared his conviction that the first theory 
advanced and then abandoned was the right one: 
that the deed had been committed by some casual 
miscreant, who would yet be discovered. 

Austin said nothing of his own newer theory, to 
the secret surprise of both Winnie and Grace, who, 
however, followed his example, supposing he thought 
it best to keep silence for the present, even among 
themselves. 

“How curious that Mr. Cacciola should be mixed 
up with it all, in a way,” remarked the vicar. 

“Do you know him, sir?” asked Austin quickly. 


146 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“Only slightly, but I like him immensely. He’s a 
Catholic, of course—and a good one, I should say. 
I often encounter him on Sunday mornings, on his 
way from Mass; and we walk along and yarn in all 
amity so far as our road lies together. That’s as 
things should be, to my mind! And he’s really 
most generous—often comes to play and brings his 
pupils to our little parish concerts, as you know, 
Miss Winston.” 

Winnie nodded. 

“Yes, the maestro is the kindest old thing imagi¬ 
nable, and so simple—not a bit of side.” 

“He’s a genius,” said the vicar. “And I think 
true genius always is simple. I met him this after¬ 
noon, of all places in the world in the post office 
itself.” 

“The post office?” cried Grace. “Not where— 
not Mrs. Cave’s?” 

“Yes. It was when I was on my way from your 
house, Armitage. I looked in for a chat with Mrs. 
Cave, and little Jessie, who really haven’t got over 
the shock yet. It will be a long time before they 
do, and they talk of giving up the shop as soon as 
they can find another. No wonder.” 

“The telephone booth is partitioned off now, by 
order of the police,” said Austin. 

“Yes, very necessary, of course; but awkward 
for the Caves, for it means that they have to go out 
at the shop door and in at the side one before they 
can get to their own rooms. I was just consoling the 
good lady—with the suggestion that now she would 
have more walks abroad and fresh air than she’s 
had for years; no use condoling, you know, that 


AUSTIN’S SILENCE 


147 


would only make things seem worse than they are— 
when in comes Mr. Cacciola and his niece, one of 
the loveliest girls I’ve ever seen in my life.” 

His niece! I didn’t know he had one—not in 
England!” exclaimed Winnie. 

“Nor I till now. But I think she must have been 
educated here, she speaks English so well; though 
possibly she has not been with him all the time. I 
should certainly have remembered her if I’d seen her 
before—such a remarkably beautiful girl. She’s 
to make her debut soon—as a violinist. And what 
do you suppose was their errand to-day? That 
young girl actually wanted to see the place where 
poor Lady Rawson was murdered, and worried her 
uncle till he brought her across and asked Mrs. 
Cave to show it them!” 

“Morbid curiosity isn’t confined to young people,” 
Mr. Armitage remarked. 

“Quite so, but it’s unhealthy in anyone, and very 
distressing in a girl like that. As a matter of fact, 

I went round with them myself. I offered to as 
Mrs. Cave was alone in the shop—Jessie was out; 
and I was glad of the opportunity, not from ‘morbid 
curiosity,’ I assure you, but simply so that I could 
see the place for myself. It seems so incredible 
that anyone could be murdered like that in a shop 
actually full of people, and the murderer get clean 
away, unless you’ve seen the place. It might have 
been made on purpose—a regular death-trap—for 
the booth is really in a narrow passage that at some 
time has been thrown into the shop, and the door of 
it opens outwards, towards the shop. Just beyond 
is the scullery-place, and / think it probable the mur- 


148 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


derer was lurking there when Jessie Jackson came 
down to help her aunt. And close at hand, on the 
right, is the street door, through which he simply 
walked out.” 

“The police think he went out through the garden 
door,” said Austin. 

“Just like ’em. But they’re wrong. Why? 
Because Sadler’s cab was standing outside the street 
door, where it was the work of an instant to throw 
the bag through the window. If the criminal had 
gone down the garden and out at that door he’d 
have had to come all the way back to pass the cab. 
And he’d never have done that; he’d have bolted 
down the street.” 

“I guess you’re right, vicar. And then he tried 
to steal the cab. Some nerve!” 

“Wrong again. That was a bit of boyish 
mischief.” 

“What in thunder makes you say that?” 

“Because I happen to know. It will all come out 
at the next hearing—inquest or police court, or both. 
However that’s only a detail.” 

“What did the girl—the maestro } s niece—say?” 
asked Winnie. 

“Ah! Of course, I was speaking of them. She 
said very little, but, do you know, her manner rather 
shocked me. It takes a lot to do that! She seemed 
positively to gloat over that horrible, tragic, dark 
corner. Cacciola was quite distressed, and remon¬ 
strated with her—at least I’m sure he did, though 
he spoke in Italian, which I don’t understand, and 
she answered him very briefly, in a passionate whis- 


AUSTIN’S SILENCE 


149 


per, and then simply walked off, and Cacciola made 
a sort of incoherent apology and hurried after her. 
I couldn’t help thinking there was something men¬ 
tally wrong—a most grievous thing, especially in 
one so young and beautiful and talented.” 

Austin Starr sat listening intently, but neither 
then nor later, when the elder men had gone, did he 
say that he knew aught of Maddelena Cacciola, 
though why he kept silence he really did not know. 


CHAPTER XVI 


* MADDELENA 

6 < IULIA, thou art a foolish old cow! I 

■ -w- tell thee no harm will come to thee. It 

is but to make oath and tell the truth; 
that the young signor came here inquiring for Donna 
Paula, and went away, and that Withers brought 
thee later the little silver case, and thou gave it to 
the police. What is there in all that?” 

In the beautifully appointed kitchen where usually 
Giulia reigned supreme Maddelena, attired in a 
morning wrapper of brilliant hues, was dividing her 
attention between preparing the breakfast coffee 
and alternately coaxing and scolding Giulia, who sat 
huddled in a chair, weeping and muttering prayers 
and protestations to every saint in the calendar. 

She was to give evidence in the police court again 
that day—as she had already done at the inquest 
which had terminated in a verdict of wilful murder 
against Roger Carling—and nothing would induce 
the poor old woman to believe that the object of 
these interrogations was any other than to prove her 
guilty of stealing that silver cigarette case! That, 
she was convinced, was what “they of the police” 
were after, and the murder of “Donna Paula” was 
quite a secondary consideration. 

Maddelena shrugged her pretty shoulders and 
150 


MADDELENA 


151 


went on with her task, setting a dainty breakfast- 
tray with a little silver service. For all her sharp 
words to Giulia, there was a smile on her lips, and 
her fine, capable white hands touched the inanimate 
things caressingly; for she was preparing that tray 
for Boris, who had not been out the other evening— 
as she told Austin Starr on the telephone—but ill in 
bed. He had collapsed after that scene at the 
cemetery, and they had brought him home more 
dead than alive. As Giulia was so foolishly upset, 
Maddelena and her uncle had nursed the invalid, 
and already he was much better. 

She turned brightly to Cacciola as he came into 
the kitchen. 

“On the instant, for behold all is ready. Tell 
him he is to eat every morsel, on pain of my royal 
displeasure! How is he?” 

“Very weak still, though he says he slept well,” 
said Cacciola, taking up the tray. “And he insists 
on coming with us to-day.” 

Maddelena’s expressive face darkened. 

“To the court? But what folly; there is no need, 
and he will make himself ill again,” she cried. 

“I think not. Let him have his way, carissima, 
and he will get over it the sooner,” said Cacciola 
pacifically, and retreated with the tray down the 
long passage that led to Melikoff’s room. 

The flat was a large one—two thrown into one 
in fact—for the maestro liked plenty of room. 
That was why he had settled in a suburb. 

Maddelena stood frowning for a minute or more, 
then shrugged her shoulders again, administered a 
petulant shake to the sobbing Giulia, poured out a 


152 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


big cup of coffee, and handed it to the old woman, 
sternly bidding her drink it and cease her fuss, and 
finally sat down to her own breakfast, breaking her 
roll and dabbing on butter with angry, jerky move¬ 
ments, and scolding Giulia between mouthfuls. 

But she showed no sign of ill-humour an hour 
later when she greeted Boris. Her manner now 
was of charming, protective, almost maternal, 
solicitude. 

She looked very beautiful too, not in the mourn¬ 
ing garb she had worn at the funeral, but in a hand¬ 
some furred coat of tawny cloth, almost the colour 
of her eyes, and a bewitching little hat to match. 

Even Boris, worn, haggard, brooding resentfully 
on his tragic sorrow, summoned up a smile for her, 
as Cacciola, watching the pair of them, noticed with 
secret satisfaction. 

“I ought to scold you Boris, my friend,” she said. 
“You are not fit to go out at all, and it will be such 
a trial for you. But, altro, you must have your way 
as usual! Give him your arm, uncle. Come, 
Giulia.” 

Outside the court they parted from the reluctant 
and trembling Giulia, leaving her in charge of the 
kindly postmistress, Mrs. Cave, who was also to 
give evidence, and promised to take charge of her 
in the witnesses’ room. 

A big crowd had assembled waiting for the public 
doors to open, but Cacciola and his companions 
were admitted through the official entrance, and 
given seats in the front row, just above and behind 
the solicitors’ table. 

A few minuses later such spectators as could be 


MADDELENA 


153 


accommodated swarmed in, pushing for places; and 
presently the body of the little court began to fill 
up, as solicitors, clerks, and reporters drifted in and 
took their places. 

Boris Melikoff, on one side of Cacciola, sat with 
his hands in his pockets, his chin sunk on his breast, 
giving no heed to anyone at present; but Mad- 
delena, on the other side, watched with lively though 
decorous interest, whispering many questions and 
comments to her uncle. 

“That is Mr. Starr, a journalist,” said Cacciola 
as Austin appeared and betook himself to the Press 
table. 

“He who spoke with me on the telephone? He 
is very good-looking. I think I like him! Ah, he 
sees us!” 

For Austin, surveying the eager, curious faces of 
the crowd, again mainly composed of smart women, 
saw the group in front, and exchanged a nod of 
greeting with Cacciola. Then his eyes met Mad- 
delena’s frank, inquiring gaze. For several sec¬ 
onds—that seemed longer to Austin—they looked 
full at each other, till she drooped her long, black 
lashes demurely, her lips relaxing in a faint smile. 
The startled admiration she thought she discerned 
in his glance amused and did not surprise her. She 
was used to creating such an impression, for, though 
not in the least vain, she was fully conscious of her 
beauty. She did not imagine that he had ever seen 
her before, and that his interest in her was deeper 
and more complex than that which an exceptionally 
pretty girl inspires in most men, young or old. 

When she stole another glance at him he was no 


154 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


longer looking in her direction, but was listening 
with frigid courtesy to a fair-haired woman in a 
seal coat and expensive hat, who had just come in 
with a tall, thin, grey-haired man, and was looking 
up coquettishly into Austin’s glum face, as she spoke 
in a rapid undertone. 

“Who is that?” demanded Maddelena. 

“Mrs. Armitage and her husband—Mrs. Carl¬ 
ing’s mother and father,” said Cacciola. 

Mrs. Armitage it was, who, having realized that 
as a close connection of the two central figures in 
this poignant drama of life, she was a person of im¬ 
portance in the eyes of the public, had decided that 
it was her duty to attend the court; and already, 
with much complacence, had permitted herself to be 
“snapped” by several Press photographers lying in 
wait outside, and had assumed a most pathetic ex¬ 
pression in the hope that it would “come out well.” 

Maddelena noted every detail of her attire and 
manner, and with keen feminine intuition summed 
her up accurately on the instant. “So. If the 
daughter is like the mother then I, for one, will 
spare no sympathy for her,” she decided. 

Cacciola touched her arm. 

“Behold, here is Mrs. Carling. The poor girl, 
my heart bleeds for her. Miss Winston is with 
her. That is good.” 

There was a buzz and flutter, as necks were 
craned in the endeavour to see Grace Carling’s face, 
but she kept her heavy veil down, and appeared ab¬ 
solutely unconscious of the presence of those in¬ 
quisitive onlookers, as she gravely accepted her 
mother’s effusive greeting, and then seated herself 


MADDELENA 


155 


with her back to the crowd, where she would have 
an uninterrupted view of her husband when he 
should be brought into the dock. 

Winnie Winston became the centre of attention 
for the moment, as, seeing Cacciola, she made her 
way across to speak to him, and unashamedly every 
one in the vicinity tried to overhear. Only 
Melikoff maintained his sullen, brooding attitude. 
He had come there to-day to see but one person, 
Roger Carling, the enemy whom he hated. 

“How is Mrs. Carling?” asked Cacciola. 

“Very well, and wonderfully brave,” said Winnie. 
“They both are, as they should be, for he is in¬ 
nocent, maestro. But it is terrible for us all. Is 
this your niece? I have heard of her, but we 
haven’t met before.” 

He introduced the girls, and Maddelena leant 
down over the barrier and spoke with charming 
courtesy. 

“My uncle talks so much of you, Miss Winston. 
You are—oh, one of his great favourites. I wish 
we had met more happily. I have just returned 
from Milan, into all this sorrow. It is too sad!” 

“Ought Mr. Melikoff to be here? He looks 
very ill,” said Winnie, with a glance at Boris; and 
Maddelena looked at him, too, her eyes softening, 
as they always did when they regarded him. 

“Alas! he would come, though I and my uncle 
sought to dissuade him; but he is very obstinate, our 
poor Boris, and distracted with grief. But he will 
—he must—recover in time.” 

Winnie nodded sympathetically and retreated, 
much to the relief of Austin Starr, who from the 


156 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


distance had watched the incident uneasily, though 
why he should be disturbed he could not have said. 
But thenceforth, for the greater part of that grim 
day, he concentrated his attention chiefly on those 
three, feeling more and more convinced that they 
presented a psychological problem which, if it could 
be solved, would elucidate the mystery of Paula 
Rawson’s murder. When Roger Carling was 
brought into the dock Starr saw Boris Melikoff sit 
up, as if galvanized into life, his white face set like 
a fine, stern mask, his dark eyes, feverishly brilliant, 
fixed relentlessly on the prisoner’s face. 

So far as Austin’s observation went, Roger was 
quite unaware of that fierce, fanatical stare, and of 
all the other eyes focused upon him. With head 
erect he listened with grave attention as the case 
against him was stated by the prosecution, and later 
supported in nearly every detail by the many wit¬ 
nesses. Usually he watched each speaker in turn, 
and in the intervals his eyes always sought those of 
Grace, in silent and spiritual communion that gave 
strength and courage to them both. At those mo¬ 
ments husband and wife were as unconscious of the 
crowded court, of the whispered glances of the spec¬ 
tators, as if they had been transported to another 
world which held none but themselves. 

Maddelena could not see Grace Carling’s face, 
but she watched Roger as intently as Austin Starr 
watched her. 

As he watched, Austin’s perplexity increased. At 
first her expressive face revealed a most curious 
emotion, in which there was no trace of the hatred 
and resentment betrayed so plainly by Boris Meli- 


MADDELENA 


157 


koff, or of the fury that had distorted it by Paula 
Rawson’s grave. On the contrary, she looked at 
Roger admiringly, exultantly, as women look at a 
hero who has done some great deed. Austin felt 
that he really would not have been surprised if she 
had clapped and cheered! 

Now, why on earth should she look at Roger 
Carling like that? 

But presently her face changed and softened, be¬ 
came gravely thoughtful. She sat very still, lean¬ 
ing forward, her elbows on the rail in front of her, 
her chin resting on her clasped hands, her dark 
brows contracted, and Austin thought he read in 
her wonderful eloquent eyes doubt, dismay, increas¬ 
ing anxiety, and a great compassion. 

What was in her mind? What did she know— 
or conjecture? 

That was what he must endeavour to discover. 

Dispassionately, inexorably, the case was stated 
by the prosecution, based, as nearly every murder 
charge must be, on circumstantial evidence. 

There were the undisputed facts that the prisoner 
had followed and endeavoured to see Lady Rawson, 
with the intention of recovering the stolen papers 
which he believed to have been—and were now 
known to have been—in her possession; that he had 
been close at hand at the moment the murder must 
have been committed, though none of the people 
who were in and out of the shop at the time, and 
who had all been traced and summoned as witnesses, 
could swear to having seen him. There was the 
agreement of time and place; even allowing for the 
delay caused by the fog, there was ample time for 


158 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


him to reach the church, “late and agitated” as he 
undoubtedly was, after committing the crime. 

Above all, there, on the table, was the possible— 
nay, almost certainly the actual—weapon employed; 
one of the two pocket knives found on the prisoner 
at the time of his arrest. It was a flat, tortoise¬ 
shell penknife, of which the larger blade, of finely 
tempered steel, keen as a razor, constituted, in the 
opinion of the surgical experts, precisely the sort of 
instrument with which the wound was inflicted. 
The other knife—a thick blunt blade—was out of 
the question, part of a “motorists’s compendium,” 
fitted with several other small tools, none of which 
could inflict just such a wound. 

Sadler, the taxi-driver, who had a bandage round 
his head and still looked shaky as a result of his 
smash up, identified the prisoner as the gentleman 
he had driven from Grosvenor Gardens to River- 
court Mansions, having already picked him out un¬ 
hesitatingly from among a number of other men. 

Sadler’s further story was perfectly straight¬ 
forward. 

Having deposited his fare, and finding himself so 
close to the house of his sweetheart, Jessie Jackson, 
he drove slowly across to the post office, saw, 
through the window, Jessie in the shop with her 
aunt, guessed that in a few minutes she would be 
going up to dinner, and they would have the chance 
of a few words together, so pulled up in a side 
street, just by the house door, and out of sight from 
the shop, and smoked a “gasper” while he waited. 

Presently he got down, had another squint into 
the shop, saw Mrs. Cave was now alone, so sounded 


MADDELENA 


159 


his horn, “in a sort of signal we have,” and Jessie 
immediately came down and let him in at the side 
door. How long he was up in the kitchen with her 
he couldn’t say—not exactly—till her aunt called 
her down. 

Then he waited for another few minutes, till he 
thought he heard someone “cranking up” his cab; 
ran downstairs, and sure enough the cab was dis¬ 
appearing down the street. 

He went after it, and round the corner, just by 
the waterworks, found it standing, the engine still 
going, and saw a “nipper” running away. 

He jumped to his seat, followed the boy, and, 
turning the corner, crashed right into a lorry, and 
that was all he knew till be came to himself in 
hospital. 

Story corroborated by Jessie Jackson, Jim Trent 
—a bright faced mischievous schoolboy, who had 
himself owned up to the police that, seeing the cab 
unattended, he couldn’t resist the temptation of 
trying to start and drive it, but soon pulled up and 
“hooked it,” exactly as Sadler had said—and several 
people who had seen the chauffeur in wrathful pur¬ 
suit of the cab. 

At this stage the court rose for lunch, and Austin 
Starr went across for a word with Cacciola. 

Already Maddelena had changed places with her 
uncle, and was speaking softly to Boris, who, the 
moment Roger Carling disappeared from sight, had 
sunk down in his former attitude, looking utterly 
exhausted. 

Starr could not hear what she said, but she seemed 
to be remonstrating with him, tenderly and anx- 


160 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


iously, while from her big brocaded bag she pro¬ 
duced a thermos flask, poured out a cup of fragrant 
Russian tea—it smelt as if it was laced with brandy 
as well as lemon!—and coaxed him to drink, just as 
a mother might coax a sick and fretful child. 

She was far too absorbed to spare a glance or a 
thought for anyone else at the moment, and Austin 
took himself off, having no time to waste, and having 
achieved his immediate purpose—an appointment 
with Cacciola at Rivercourt Mansions that evening. 
He was most anxious to begin a near study of that 
“psychological problem” of which Maddelena Cac¬ 
ciola was the most perplexing—yes, and the most 
attractive element! 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM 


I T was fairly late that evening when Austin Starr 
arrived at Cacciola’s, having had a hasty meal 
at a restaurant when he was through with his 
day’s work. 

He had been obliged to decline the maestro’s hos¬ 
pitable invitation to dinner, and had been assured 
by the old man that it did not matter how late he 
turned up: “I am not what the English call an 
early bird!” 

Cacciola himself, arrayed in dressing-gown and 
slippers and carrying a big curved meerschaum pipe 
in his hand, admitted and welcomed him cordially. 

There was no one else in the spacious sitting- 
room, but Austin’s quick sense of disappointment 
was speedily banished by his host. 

“Sit down, my friend. You will find that chair 
comfortable. Now, will you have wine—it is here 
ready? Or wait for the coffee which my Mad- 
delena will bring soon? She is now preparing it.” 
“Coffee for me, thank you, sir.” 

“And none makes it better than Maddelena,” said 
the old man, settling himself in his own great chair, 
and resuming his pipe. “It is well indeed for us all 
that she is at home at this time, for, alas! we are a 
sick household, with Boris and my poor old Giulia 
161 




162 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


so much distressed by this terrible event, which 
touched us so nearly through our poor Boris.” 

“It’s a great and awful mystery that I’d give my 
right hand to solve,” said Austin bluntly. 

Cacciola looked at him with grave surprise. 

“Say a tragedy, yes. But where is the mystery? 
There is no doubt of the guilt of that unhappy 
young man.” 

“Doubt! Man alive, Roger Carling is as inno¬ 
cent as I am; I’d stake my life on that! He’s been 
committed for trial, I know—one couldn’t expect 
anything else at present—but-” 

He checked himself. After all, he had come here 
in search of a clue, and must say nothing that might 
put Cacciola on his guard. 

“Now that is strange,” mused Cacciola. “Mad- 
delena has been saying the same ever since we re¬ 
turned from the court, simply because she has de¬ 
cided that he does not look like a murderer—a 
woman’s reason!” 

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your niece 
yet. Does she live with you, sir?” 

“It is her home, and has been these many years, 
since my brother died and left her in my charge. 
She and my poor Boris are to me as children. But 
she has not been at home except for holidays since 
she went to school; she has been educated here in 
England, and since two years has been studying in 
Milan. She should be there now, the naughty one, 
but the moment she heard the news of this terrible 
thing she came back, travelling night and day. I 
was vexed, yes; with a musician, music should al¬ 
ways come first, and her impulse will retard her 



THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM 


163 


career; but I do not know what we should have 
done without her. None can manage Boris and our 
old Giulia as Maddelena does,” he added with an 
indulgent smile. 

“Is that so? She’s evidently a very capable as 
well as a very charming young lady. Is she a singer, 
sir?” said Austin, conscious of a curious sense of re¬ 
lief. What dark suspicions had been in his mind 
ever since he saw that fury of hatred in the girl’s 
face as she stood by Paula Rawson’s grave he had 
not dared to formulate, even in thought, but they 
had been there, and now Cacciola’s words had dis¬ 
persed them so far as Maddelena was concerned. 
However much she hated the dead woman, she 
could have had no hand in her death. 

Yet he was still convinced that here, in this quaint 
Bohemian household, the heart of the mystery was 
hidden. How was he to discover it? At present 
all he could do was to cultivate his friendship with 
the genial, simple-minded old maestro, whom he was 
learning to like immensely. At the back of his 
mind he was secretly ashamed of employing this 
plan. It was a low-down trick, yet the only course 
that seemed possible at present. And Roger Car¬ 
ling’s life was in the balance: that grim fact over¬ 
shadowed all other considerations! 

Cacciola shook his head and shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders with a whimsical air of resignation. 

“Alas! no. She has a voice indeed which, com¬ 
pared with most English voices for instance, would 
pass as good. But a Cacciola who sings must excel, 
and my Maddelena will never excel-” 

“As a singer! My uncle is on his old grievance,” 



164 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


said Maddelena herself, as she entered carrying the 
coffee-tray, and flashed an amused glance from one 
to the other. 

“Aha! What is the proverb about listeners 
never hearing any good of themselves?” chuckled 
Cacciola. “This is my little girl, Mr. Starr; and if 
she had come an instant later she would have heard 
something nicer, for one of these days she is going 
to be a great violinist.” 

“So my uncle says; but we shall see,” laughed 
Maddelena, setting the tray on a low, carved stand, 
and giving Austin her hand, and continuing more 
seriously: “I am so glad you have come to-night, 
Mr. Starr, for I have heard so much of you, and 
there are, oh, so many things I want to ask you 
about. You are a great friend of that poor Mr. 
Carling and his bride, are you not? The poor 
young lovers, how my heart is grieved for them! 
But we must have our coffee first and then we will 
talk.” 

There was something so frank and charming in 
her manner, so like her uncle’s, in its easy, gracious 
simplicity, that again Austin marvelled, remember¬ 
ing her in that unguarded moment the other day. 
Was she merely a creature of passionate impulse or 
a consummate actress? 

“I am very much the maid-of-all-work these 
days,” she explained, seating herself between them 
on a big “humpty.” “For Giulia—you know her?” 

“Your old servant, yes, I have seen her.” 

“She is still in such a state of nerves that she is 
no use at all. It is very foolish of her.” 


THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM 165 


‘Have patience, carissima; she will get over it in 
time. We all shall,” said Cacciola soothingly. 

“I suppose Mrs. Giulia was very fond of Lady 
Rawson?” hazarded Austin. 

Maddelena turned towards him, raising her dark 
brows. 

“Fond of her? No, indeed. Why should she 
be?” 

“I don’t know. But I thought, as she seemed to 
be fairly intimate with you all-” 

“Paula Rawson intimate with us!” 

There was a note of indignant protest in her 
rich voice, and her eyes flashed stormily. Austin 
metaphorically “sat up,” and Cacciola cast a depre¬ 
cating glance at the girl. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve said anything wrong, Miss 
Maddelena; but it seems she did come here very 
frequently, so I naturally thought-” 

“Come here, yes, indeed, and far too often,” said 
Maddelena with emphasis. “But not to see us. 
She came to see Boris, her cousin; not because she 
loved him—Paula Rawson was not capable of lov¬ 
ing anyone—but because she wanted him as a tool 
for her ambitions, for her intrigues. She was ruin¬ 
ing him, body and soul!” 

Cacciola interposed, almost sternly: “Peace, 
Maddelena. We must speak with charity of the 
dead!” 

“That is my uncle all over. Oh, yes, ‘speak with 
charity, think with charity!’ For me, I cannot, I 
will not, when I think of Paula Rawson. I am glad 
she is dead. If I made any other pretence I should 




166 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


be a hypocrite. This is the truth, Mr. Starr—my 
uncle knows it, though he will not say so now. We 
were so happy together, he and I and Boris, a year 
ago, when I came home from Milan for the winter 
vacation. You, who have only seen Boris as he is 
now, cannot imagine what he was then—what he 
was to us both. And his voice!” 

“Ah! she is right,” sighed Cacciola. “It was 
divine, but the voice is there still, my child, the saints 
be praised, and when he recovers he will sing once 
more, better than ever perhaps, and be his old self 
once again.” 

“Perhaps. Because Paula Rawson is dead and 
can trouble him no more,” cried Maddelena. He 
met her, she whom he had thought dead, as would 
to heaven she had been—and, lo, we became as noth¬ 
ing to him: his voice, his career became as nothing! 
He lived only for her, to do her bidding, to see her 
from time to time; plotting for their country, they 
said. Pouff! He had forgotten his country until 
he met her—Paula—again, and fluttered round her 
like a moth round a candle, singeing his wings. 
Well, that candle has been put out, just in time to 
save him being burnt up!” 

Cacciola shifted uneasily in his chair, but did not 
venture on further expostulation. 

“Do you know any of their Russian friends, Miss 
Cacciola?” asked Austin. 

She shook her head. 

“They used to come and go like shadows, seeing 
only Boris, and whoever might chance to admit them 
when he did not—Giulia or my uncle usually. She 


THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM 167 


—Paula—actually had a key, and could let herself 
into this, our home, if you please, whenever she 
liked. I was always furious about it, as was Giulia, 
and my uncle did not like it. He should have for¬ 
bidden it, as I told him a hundred times.” 

“She had a key!” exclaimed Austin. “Did she 
use it that last time she was here?” 

“I do not know. Why do you ask?” 

“Because if she did it ought to have been found 
either in her purse or her bag, and certainly it was 
not there.” 

“That is curious,” said Maddelena reflectively. 
“I will find out from Giulia to-morrow; she is in bed 
now. You think that is of importance?” 

“Every little thing is of importance. See, here, 
Miss Cacciola-” 

“Well?” she asked, her bright eyes fixed inquir¬ 
ingly upon him, as he hesitated, wondering if, and 
how far, he should confide in her. Cacciola still re¬ 
mained silent but was listening intently. 

“It’s this way,” Austin resumed slowly, weighing 
each word before he spoke. “Roger Carling is in¬ 
nocent. A good few of us—every one who really 
knows him, in fact, except Sir Robert Rawson him¬ 
self—are convinced of that, although appearances 
are so terribly against him.” 

“I too, since I watched him in the court to-day,” 
she murmured. 

“I know. The maestro told me so just before 
you came in. Now we’ve got to find out the truth, 
to trace the murderer, before the trial comes on, 
and we’ve only a very few weeks to do it in. It’s 



168 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


no use going to the police, unless and until we’ve got 
something definite to put them on. They think the 
case is clear and their duty done.” 

“But you—there is something in your mind?” 

“There is, but I don’t quite know how to explain 
it. I believe this Russian business may provide the 
clue, and that you can help to find it. Just suppose 
there was one of them who had a personal grudge 
against her—or even a spy in their councils, for there 
always is a spy, sure, in these intrigues.” 

“Or someone who wanted to separate her from 
Boris,” said Maddelena dryly, and he was thankful 
that she was now gazing at the fire and not at him. 
“Well, I and my uncle wanted to do that. He is 
sorry the separation has been brought about with 
such tragedy, but I—I care not how it came about 
so that it did come. I wonder you did not suspect 
me, Mr. Starr!” 

She turned and looked at him again, a sort of 
challenge in her eyes, which he met squarely. 

“Maddelena!” exclaimed Cacciola, glancing from 
one to the other, but neither heeded him at the 
moment. 

“Perhaps I did till I met you,” Austin answered. 
“I don’t now, or I shouldn’t have asked your help.” 

“Good! I like an honest man, and that is very 
honest, Mr. Starr. I also will be honest. I did 
not murder Paula Rawson, though there have been 
many times when I would have done so if I could. 
And I tell you that if I knew who did I would do 
all in my power to shield him.” 

“But not if an innocent man should suffer in his 
place,” he urged. “Miss Cacciola, I implore you 


THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM 169 


if you know anything—even if you suspect anything 
or anyone-” 

“I neither know nor suspect anything,” she inter¬ 
rupted decisively. “I had not thought till to-day 
that there was any doubt. But you are right, the 
innocent must not suffer. I—we”—she glanced at 
her uncle—“will do all we can to help you.” 

“What can we do?” asked Cacciola perplexedly. 
“I have heard you with much surprise, with much 
distress. I am grieved that Maddelena here is so 
hard; she knows it. It is not like her, signor, for 
she is truly a loving child.” 

He looked so thoroughly upset and miserable that 
with one of her swift impulses Maddelena sprang 
up, and bent over the back of his chair, putting her 
arms caressingly round him. 

“Never mind me, dear uncle. I love when I love 
and I hate when I hate; I am made like that, and it 
cannot be helped. But Mr. Starr is right: we must 
do what we can to bring the truth to light.” 

“That’s so, Miss Cacciola. Now do either of 
you know the names of any of these Russians or 
where they live?” 

“I do not, nor you, uncle? As I said, they came 
and went as they liked, and my uncle should have 
forbidden it; but he is so weak where Boris is con¬ 
cerned. And he is so sorry for them, as for all 
who are unfortunate.” She gave him another hug, 
and resumed her seat, continuing: “Do you know 
he used to give them food if he was at home and 
knew they were there with Boris, slinking in by one 
and two after dark? Well, he would bid Giulia 
make a good meal; and she did, grumbling. But 



170 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


she was never permitted to take in the dishes—no, 
nor even to peep into the room. Boris always came 
and took them from her!” 

“What is a little food?” protested Cacciola. “I 
do not believe there is any harm in these poor souls; 
they are not Communists, but aristocrats who have 
escaped with their bare lives—whose lives are still 
perhaps in danger; and of one thing I am certain: 
not one of them would have lifted his hand against 
Paula—she was their best friend.” 

“There may have been a spy among them for all 
that, as Mr. Starr suggested,” said Maddelena. 
“And I promise you that I will find out all I can 
about them. Boris will tell me, if I go to work in 
the right way.” 

“I’m infinitely obliged to you, Miss Maddelena,” 
said Austin earnestly. 

“And now let us talk of something pleasanter. 
Will you have some more coffee? Ah, it is cold! 
Some wine, then. That will make my uncle more 
cheerful. Will you move the coffee-tray, Mr. 
Starr? Set it on the piano—anywhere.” 

He jumped up to do her bidding, while she 
crossed to the corner cupboard. Taking the tray 
from the little carved stand, he glanced round the 
room, and noting a small table near the door moved 
towards it. 

As he did so he saw the door, on which hung a 
heavy embroidered portiere, gently closing. Next 
instant he remembered that Maddelena had cer¬ 
tainly shut the door after her when she entered; he 
had noticed the clever little backward kick with 
which she did so, and had heard the click of the 


THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM 171 


latch. None of them had been anywhere near the 
door since. Who then was outside? 

Striding swiftly across the room he dropped 
rather than set the tray on the table, sprang to the 
door and threw it wide open. The outer hall was 
dark and silent. 

“Who is there?” he demanded, and at the same 
moment Maddelena called from the other side 
the room: 

“What is the matter, Mr. Starr?” 

“The door has been opened—someone has been 
listening,” he said, stepping warily into the darkness 
and feeling for the electric switch. “Where is that 
switch?” 

“By the hall door, on the right,” said Maddelena, 
hurrying to him, while Cacciola followed more 
slowly, shuffling in his big slippers. 

He switched the light on. The small, square hall 
was empty but for themselves. Maddelena passed 
swiftly along and switched on another light that il¬ 
luminated the twso passages at the end that ran right 
and left. No one there either. 

“I shut the door when I came in,” she whispered. 

“I know. I saw you,” he answered as softly. 

“And I left the light on in the hall—I had both 
my hands full. It must have been either Boris or 
Giulia. Uncle, go and see if Boris is up. I will 
go to Giulia,” she said, motioning Austin to stay 
where he was. 

He watched her go softly along the right-hand 
passage, open a door at the end, and switch on a 
light. From within the room, even at that dis¬ 
tance, he could hear a sonorous snore. 


172 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Maddelena put out the light, closed Giulia’s door, 
and beckoned to Austin to join her. 

“She is fast asleep; it could not have been she. 
I—I am frightened. Let us look in the other 
rooms.” 

They did so; dining-room, kitchen, her own room 
—a charming one, next to Giulia’s. No one lurk¬ 
ing there. 

They went back and found Cacciola doing the 
same in the other wing, which once was a separate 
flat. He too looked very disturbed. 

“Boris sleeps soundly, as he should do; he is un¬ 
der the doctor and had a sleeping draught to-night, 
and there is none other here but ourselves. Who 
can have been here?” 

“I guess whoever it was has just walked out,” 
said Austin, striding back to the front door. “Why 
didn’t I think of that first?” 

“Wait, the lights will be out there. Take my 
torch,” counselled Cacciola, fumbling for it in his 
overcoat pocket. 

Softly all three of them went down all those 
flights of stone stairs. Still no sign of anyone, no 
sound. They themselves were evidently, and as 
usual, the only occupants of the block who were up 
so late; but the street door was open. 

“That is proof,” whispered Maddelena. “It is 
always closed at eleven; after that we have to admit 
ourselves with our pass-key.” 

“How many keys to this door have you?” asked 
Austin, after looking out into the night and closing 
the door, latching it this time. 


THE PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEM 173 


“Only one—my uncle has it; and if others are late 
they must rouse the porter.” 

“I wonder who has that missing key—the key you 
told me just now that Lady Rawson had, and lost,” 
said Austin, when they had returned to the drawing¬ 
room. “Take my advice, Mr. Cacciola, and have a 
new lock to your front door to-morrow. And don’t 
leave any spare keys around!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


HARMONY—AND DISCORD 

“TS that all, Mr. Starr?” 

“It’s something to go on, isn’t it?” Austin 

JL countered. He had decided to take counsel 
with Snell upon that problem he was endeavouring 
to solve, and the detective had listened in silence to 
his account of the interview with Cacciola and Mad- 
delena, and the curious incident that had terminated 
it. 

“Well, if you want my opinion,” said Snell dryly, 
“it is that you’ve discovered—or created—quite a 
nice little mare’s nest.” 

“Now see here, Snell, you’re simply prejudiced!” 

“Not at all, Mr. Starr. If there’s one thing I 
pride myself on more than another it is on never 
being prejudiced. And if you think I did not, at 
the very outset, satisfy myself—yes, and my su¬ 
periors too—that neither Melikoff and his asso¬ 
ciates nor the old signor and his household had 
anything at all to do with the murder of Lady Raw- 
son, I can only assure you that you’re jolly well 
mistaken!” 

“You’ve got it fixed up in your mind that Roger 
Carling is guilty, and you won’t look any further,” 
Austin said bitterly. 

“I haven’t. It’s for a jury to decide whether 
174 


HARMONY—AND DISCORD 


175 


he’s guilty or innocent. And if you or anyone else 
can point to any clue in any other direction that I 
haven’t followed up and sifted I’ll go to work again 

instantly. As for the Russians-” He touched 

an electric button on his table, scribbled a few words 
on a card, and handed it to the clerk who entered. 
“As you aren’t inclined to believe me, and as I know 
you’re to be trusted, I’m going to let you look 
through the dossiers for yourself. You mustn’t 
make any notes, of course.’’ 

“That’s very good of you. But what about the 
person who was in the flat?’’ 

“Old Madam Giulia—queer old girl too; what a 
fuss she made in the witness-box, even for a for¬ 
eigner!—or perhaps even Melikoff himself, who 
thought he’d like to hear what you were all yarning 
about, and scooted as soon as you moved.’’ 

“Impossible! Neither of them could have got 
down the long passage and into bed, apparently 
asleep, in the time. If I’d only thought of the hall 
door first we should have caught whoever it was. 
But I didn’t, and we never heard a sound. The 
tray clattered some as I set it down or I’d have 
heard the click of the lock. And what about that 
key that Melikoff gave Lady Rawson and she lost, 
or gave away?” 

“That’s really the only point worth anything at 
all, and I doubt if it’s worth much. What a fool 
Melikoff was to give her that key, and the old signor 
to allow it. That the lot?”—as the clerk re-entered 
bringing several neatly arranged sets of papers. 
“All right, leave them for the present. Now, Mr. 
Starr, here you are. Take your time.” 



176 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


He pushed the papers across the table to Austin, 
and resumed his own work. 

Rapidly but methodically Austin ran through the 
dossiers one after another, his heart sinking as he 
did so. For Snell was right. They provided, with 
much other information, a complete record of the 
movements, on the day of the murder, of presum¬ 
ably every one of the group of refugees with whom 
Boris Melikoff was associated, compiled from per¬ 
sonal interrogation of each and verified by further 
searching investigation. In the face of this no 
shadow of suspicion could fall on any one of them. 
Almost mechanically he memorized the names and 
addresses—one never knew when such information 
might come in useful. 

“Well?” asked Snell laconically as he finished. 

“You’re right, of course. I must say you’ve done 
the thing pretty thoroughly.” 

“As usual. Though the public, and some people 
who might be expected to know better, don’t give us 
credit for it,” said Snell dryly. “It was easy 
enough in this case, as they’re all aliens and regis¬ 
tered as such. We keep an eye on them all, as a 
matter of course, and we’ve known all there is to 
know about this lot ever since they landed. Quite 
a harmless lot, in my opinion.” 

“Yet you didn’t know at the time that Lady Raw- 
son was one of them,” suggested Austin. “You 
told me so yourself.” 

“Quite so; but then she wasn’t registered—not 
necessary as she became ‘British’ on her marriage.” 

“If their meetings were so harmless why did she 
steal those papers from her husband?” 


HARMONY—AND DISCORD 


177 


“Ah, that’s quite another question, Mr. Starr. 
Her motive doesn’t matter in the least, so far as 
tracking her murderer is concerned; and if you hark 
back to the papers as a clue, why they lead straight 
to the one person—Mr. Roger Carling. And there 
you are!” 

Austin leant his head on his hand in deep 
dejection. 

“I’ll never believe it was Roger Carling!” 

Snell glanced at him kindly enough. 

“Take my advice, Mr. Starr, don’t go wearing 
yourself out trying to find fresh trails. They’ll all 
turn out as false as this one. The only thing to be 
done is to leave it to the jury—or to chance. I’ve 
known a lot of mysteries cleared up by what seemed 
to be pure chance.” 

“There’s still the notion of a casual thief,” mused 
Austin. 

“There is. And we’re keeping that in sight I 
assure you. But I don’t believe it was done by a 
wrong ’un down on his luck. Whoever it was wore 
gloves.” 

“How in thunder do you know that?” demanded 
Austin, genuinely surprised. 

“Because there were smears on the bag caused by 
gloved fingers. If they’d been finger prints they’d 
have been hanging evidence! There were no such 
smears on the envelope, though.” 

“Any finger prints on it?” asked Austin quickly. 

“Lots—from Carling’s own to Lord Warring* 
ton’s; it had been handled by half a dozen people at 
least—quite legitimately. Carling’s prints, of course 
—though they’re the clearest of the lot under the 


178 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


microscope—won’t be regarded as evidence against 
him, as he was the first to handle and seal the en¬ 
velope the night before. All that will be threshed 
out at the trial.” 

“I guess so. Well, I’m infinitely obliged to you, 
Mr. Snell,” said Austin despondently. 

“Wish I’d been able to help you,” Snell responded 
as they shook hands. 

Austin walked slowly along the Embankment in 
deep and distressed thought. This interview with 
Snell was a bitter disappointment; and now again 
he seemed up against a blank wall. There was still 
the mysterious visitant to the flat to be considered, 
but if he or she was traced that might prove nothing. 

Outside Charing Cross Station he paused inde¬ 
cisively. He had an hour or two to spare. Should 
he go to Chelsea? He hadn’t seen Winnie for over 
a week—not since that day at the police court when 
Roger was committed for trial—as she had been 
singing at Bristol and only returned yesterday. Or 
should he go to Cacciola’s on the chance of finding 
anyone at home? 

He would not acknowledge even in his own mind 
that by “anyone” he meant Maddelena. The girl 
attracted him most strongly, and in a manner that 
he did not choose to analyse. He did not love her 
—of that he was quite sure. He had never been of 
a susceptible nature where women were concerned; 
had always held to the high ideals of love and mar¬ 
riage derived from a long line of Puritan ancestors, 
for he came of a sound New English stock. He 
loved Winnie Winston; he meant to marry her; 
would have been profoundly indignant at any sug- 


HARMONY—AND DISCORD 


179 


gestlon that he could waver in his allegiance to her. 

And yet at intervals ever since he first saw Mad- 
delena Cacciola beside Paula Rawson’s grave, and 
almost continuously since that evening when he had 
met and talked with her, that beautiful, vivid face, 
with its swift, passionate changes of expression, had 
haunted him, sleeping and waking, in a most per¬ 
plexing and disturbing way! 

He had not seen or spoken to her since, for 
though he had rung up several times, only Giulia 
had answered, to the effect that the signor and 
signorina were out. 

As he turned into the station he tried to convince 
himself that he was going to Rivercourt Mansions 
merely to ascertain if the girl had been able to get 
any information from Boris, as she had undertaken 
to do, and not that he had any desire to meet her 
again; and all the time, at the back of his honest 
mind he was quite aware—and ashamed—of the 
subterfuge. 

As he mounted the last of the long flights of stone 
stairs that led to Cacciola’s eyrie he heard music 
from within—a glorious tenor voice, pure, passion¬ 
ate, thrilling—singing to a masterly accompaniment 
of piano and violin. 

Outside the door he waited, listening intently and 
in sheer delight, wishing, indeed, that he had been 
within; but it was unthinkable to intrude the strident 
impertinence of an electric bell on that feast of 
harmony. 

The voice ceased. There followed a beautiful 
little ascending passage on the violin, which he 
strained his ears to hear, a final grand chord on the 


180 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


piano. Then silence. He touched the bell at last, 
and instantly the door was opened by Giulia, who 
beamed a welcome to him and whispered: 

“They make music once more. Go in, signor.” 

Thus informally, and unannounced, he entered 
the big room. Cacciola, seated at the piano, had 
swung round and was talking with eager animation 
to Boris and Maddelena, the girl still holding her 
violin. 

As Austin entered she laid down the instrument 
and ran towards him, giving him both her hands in 
greeting. 

“You! Oh, I am glad! But why did you not 
come before, so that you could have heard Boris 
sing? The very first time for so very many weeks 
—and superbly!” 

“I did hear quite a lot from outside—the violin 
too, Miss Maddelena,” he said, smiling down at 
her. “You’re right, superb is the only word.” 

He exchanged greetings with the maestro and 
Melikoff, who, flushed, smiling, excited, looked an 
altogether different being from the stricken, morose 
creature Austin had known hitherto. 

“All is coming right, as I told you it would,” said 
Cacciola delightedly. “The voice is fine as ever. 
You heard? It is but a matter of time now and 
our Boris will be known as the world’s greatest 
tenor, and you, signor, will be able to boast that you 
are one of the few who has had the privilege of 
hearing him in private, for he will sing again pres¬ 
ently. But come, you have not yet seen an old 
friend of yours, who happily is also here: my dear 
young pupil, Miss Winston.” 


HARMONY—AND DISCORD 181 

Why he should have experienced an extraordinary 
sensation of embarrassment and dismay Austin 
really did not know, but he certainly did so, as from 
a big chair in the dusk beyond the grand piano 
Winnie rose and came towards him. 

“Winnie! I didn’t think to meet you here,” he 
murmured confusedly. 

“Nor I you,” said Winnie. “I returned yester¬ 
day.” 

“I know. I was coming around to see you to¬ 
morrow. Did you have a good time, dear?” 

“Quite good—thanks. But I must be off now. 
Good-bye, maestro , and-” 

“But no, no, you must not go!” protested Cacci- 
ola. “Giulia will bring in tea in one moment now 
—Maddelena will hasten her—real Russian tea that 
Boris has taught us to like, and it is so good for the 
voice too! Also you must sing again presently. 
We have not got that new song right yet.” 

“I’m so tired, maestro ) and I couldn’t sing after 
Mr. Melikoff. How splendid he is!” 

“Pouff! Not sing again indeed; you must not 
talk like an amateur. You are an artiste, and 
among ourselves we never make comparisons. 
Though there can never be any comparison with 
Boris: he is unique! How thankful I am—and so 
is my Maddelena—that he is recovering himself. 
Now sit down again, my child, and here is a chair 
for Mr. Starr.” 

Maddelena had taken her uncle’s hint and gone 
to hurry up Giulia with the tea, and Boris followed 
her. Austin heard her laugh as they went along 
the passage. Truly the atmosphere here had 



182 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


changed marvellously in these few days. He sat 
down in the chair Cacciola had pulled up close to 
Winnie’s, but for once in his life could find nothing 
to say to her; while she virtually ignored him, and 
chatted with the maestro till the tea appeared, 
brought in procession by Giulia and the two young 
people. 

Maddelena, in the highest spirits, was a charming 
hostess, and, like her uncle, treated Austin with the 
easy familiarity of old friendship. It was merely 
their unconventional, hospitable way, as Winnie at 
least knew perfectly well, from her long acquaint¬ 
ance with the maestro, though she had never hap¬ 
pened to meet Maddelena till now; yet she won¬ 
dered how often he had been there of late, and why 
he had said nothing about it. 

There was more music after tea. Winnie sang 
without further demur, at the maestro y s bidding, 
and was painfully conscious, as were her auditors, 
that, for her, she sang very badly. She had a beau¬ 
tiful, mezzo-soprano voice, sweet, true and fresh 
as a song-bird’s, and perfectly trained—Cacciola 
had seen to that—but to-night it was toneless, life¬ 
less, devoid of expression. 

“I’m sorry, maestro, }> she murmured apologet¬ 
ically at the end, meeting his gaze of consternation. 

“We shall do better to-morrow,” he said consol¬ 
ingly. “Will you come to me at three? Good! 
It is strange, for it went so well before; but, as you 
say, you are tired, I should not have insisted. Now, 
Boris, once more?” 

Melikoff, sprawling on the hearthrug and looking 


HARMONY—AND DISCORD 


183 


through a pile of music, selected a book of Russian 
songs, and began to rise. 

“Not those!” said Maddelena imperatively, 
snatching the book from him and picking up an¬ 
other. “Mr. Starr wants to hear the Neapolitan 
ones—with the guitar. I will get it!” As she 
passed Austin she bent and whispered significantly, 
“He shall sing no Russian here if I can prevent it,” 
and he nodded as one who understood. 

Winnie could not hear the words, but she saw the 
incident, and found in it fresh food for thought. 

“With a guitar—good; that gives me a rest,” 
said Cacciola, quitting the piano and settling himself 
comfortably in his big chair. “They are trifles, 
these songs, but not unworthy even of Boris. 
There is the soul of the people in them. Now, my 
children.” 

He was right. Those songs—sung by genera¬ 
tions of humble folk for centuries, and famous 
throughout the world to-day—were a revelation as 
Boris Melikoff sang them, albeit he was the son of 
a sterner and sadder race: songs of life, and love, 
and death, of sunshine and storm, with the sound of 
the sea as an undertone through all, heard in the 
thrilling throb of the guitar, which Maddelena 
played like the artiste she was. 

Austin listened in sheer delight, forgetful of 
everything else in the world for the moment. 

When the last exquisite note died away there was 
a little interval of silence more eloquent than any 
words. Maddelena, the guitar on her lap, looked 
up at Boris with a tremulous smile, her eyes shining 


184 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


through tears, murmuring something in Italian, and 
impulsively he stooped and kissed her on the lips, 
just as Cacciola cried, also in Italian: 

“Brava! brava! dear children. There can be 
nothing better in its way!” 

Austin joined wholeheartedly in the applause and 
congratulations. 

“How splendidly you accompany him, Miss 
Maddelena.” 

“Yes, does she not?” said Boris. “I do not 
think I could sing those songs so with anyone but 
Maddelena. And you would not think it was so 
long since we practised them together—nearly a 
year?” 

“Yes, a long year!” said Maddelena. 

“I must be going,” Winnie announced. “Good¬ 
bye, Miss Cacciola; you’ve given me a most tre¬ 
mendous treat, both of you. Now keep up the sing¬ 
ing, Mr. Melikoff. We’re all so proud of you, and 
want you to have the world at your feet, as you 
will soon! Good-bye, maestro. Three o’clock to¬ 
morrow.” 

She turned to Austin, with a curious enigmatic 
little smile, an inquiring lift of her eyebrows. 

“I’m coming with you,” he said, and proceeded 
to make his own adieux. 

Cacciola came to the door with them, but scarcely 
had they descended the first flight of stairs when 
Maddelena came running after them. 

“Mr. Starr!” 

Austin turned and came up a few steps to meet 
her. 

“I am so sorry,” she whispered hurriedly, bend- 


HARMONY—AND DISCORD 


185 


ing her charming face confidentially towards him. 
“I have not been able to question him about those 
others, or, more truthfully, I would not do so, for, 
as you see, he is beginning to forget, and I feared 
to bring the black shadow upon him again.” 

“I understand, Miss Cacciola, and I’ve got some 
information already, from another source; but what 
about that key, and-” 

“And the person who entered? We do not 
know. My uncle spoke to Boris next morning. 
He knew nothing, and says he is sure it was none of 
his friends. But that key which— she —had has 
never been found, and we have had the lock 
changed, as you said. Good-bye. Come again 
soon.” 

She retreated, and he ran down the stairs, over¬ 
taking Winnie just outside. 

“Great luck to find you, dear,” he said, falling 
into step beside her. 

“Yes? I didn’t know you were so intimate with 
the Cacciolas.” 

“I’m not, except that they’re so friendly and easy 
to get on with. I’ve only met Miss Maddelena once 
before—when I went around there one evening.” 

“Oh, how interesting!” 

She spoke quite gently, but in a tone and manner 
so cold and dignified that he might have been an 
utter stranger. He felt hurt, indignant; but his 
tone was as aloof as her own as he responded: 

“Yes, it was interesting—very. I went, as I told 
you I should, to try and get hold of a clue.” 

She turned to him quickly: 

“Oh! Did you find out anything?” 



186 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“Very little so far. I’ll tell you all about it when 
we get in. I should have told you before, of course, 
if you hadn’t been away.” 

“There’s a tram stopping,” she said incon- 
sequently, and made for it. “Which way are you 
going?” 

“To take you home, of course.” 

“I’m not going home, but to Grace at Bucking¬ 
ham Gate. She’s there now.” 

He nodded; it was impossible to talk in the noisy 
and crowded tram. 

“We’ll take a taxi from here,” he suggested 
meekly when they alighted at the terminus opposite 
the station. 

“Certainly not! I’m going to St. James’s Park,” 
said Winnie decisively, and hurried recklessly across 
the road, in imminent danger of being run over. 

“Now what in thunder’s wrong?” Austin asked 
himself, but there was no opportunity of asking her, 
until at length they reached the quietude of Buck¬ 
ingham Gate, and then he found it difficult to begin. 

“I’ve such lots to tell you, but it will have to keep 
till to-morrow night, for I’ve to go around to the 
‘Courier’ now,” he said awkwardly. “Give my 
love to Grace. And—see here, Winnie—what’s 
wrong, dear?” 

“Wrong? What do you mean? Nothing—or 
—oh, everything, I think! Never mind. Here we 
are. Good night, Austin.” 

She did give him her hand, but withdrew it 
quickly, and stepped into the waiting lift, which bore 
her swiftly out of sight. 


HARMONY—AND DISCORD 


187 


Austin stood for a few seconds, frowning; then 
lighted a cigarette, striking the match with an angry 
jerk, and went on his way feeling exceedingly 
ill-used! 


CHAPTER XIX 


DARK HOURS 


HERE are very few, if any, prisoners, be 



they innocent or guilty, who, accused of 


murder, or of any other crime considered 


too serious to admit of release on bail, do not en¬ 
dure agonies of mind during that terrible interval 
between their committal and trial. 

Possibly the innocent suffer the most; for to all the 
restraints and humiliations of prison life—less se¬ 
vere, indeed, than those imposed on convicted 
criminals, but still irksome and wearing to a degree 
—are added a bitter sense of injustice and often 
almost intolerable anxiety on account of those, their 
nearest and dearest, who, innocent as themselves, 
are yet inevitably involved in the disaster, subjected 
to all the agonies of separation, of suspense, some¬ 
times of piteous privation. Even the fortitude in¬ 
duced by the inner consciousness of innocence is sel¬ 
dom strong enough to overcome this mental and 
physical distress. 

So Roger Carling suffered—all the more because 
he strove to show no sign, endeavoured always to 
appear cheerful and confident in his interviews with 
his solicitors and counsel, and above all with Grace, 
whose visits, albeit under the strict regulations as 
to time, and under more or less official surveillance, 


188 


DARK HOURS 


189 


were the great events of this grim and dreary period. 

Like the blessed sunshine she came into that bare, 
formal room, always beautifully dressed, with a 
smile on her dear lips, the lovelight in her eyes; and 
they would sit hand in hand and chat almost gaily; 
for the prescribed time, which sped all too swiftly, 
while the dark intervals between dragged on leaden 
feet. 

Only God, Who knows the secret of all hearts, 
knew what effort that courage required, or how 
nearly their hearts were breaking! 

For the days and weeks were drifting by, and no 
fresh Fight whatever had been shed on the mystery 
of Paula Rawson’s death. The trial was to take 
place early in the New Year, the first on the list for 
the session, and Cummings-Browne, K.C., had been 
secured for the defence. If anyone could secure 
acquittal on such slight grounds of defence as were 
at present available it was he. But although the 
faithful few never wavered in their belief of Roger 
Carling’s innocence, they knew it would be a stern 
fight—in fact, almost a forlorn hope. 

Only Grace herself would never acknowledge 
that. How his deliverance would be brought about, 
his innocence established before all the world, she 
did not know; but not even in those long nights 
when she lay awake, thinking of and praying for 
her beloved in anguish of soul, did she allow herself 
to doubt that he would be delivered, he would be 
vindicated. 

That sublime faith alone enabled her to endure 
these dark winter days of loneliness and sorrow. 

Always she kept before her the one thought: 


190 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“When Roger comes home.” On that she shaped 
her whole life. 

That was why she insisted on living alone in the 
little flat that was to have been their first home, 
which she told herself should yet be their home 
together. 

Day after day she laboured, putting it in beautiful 
order, arranging Roger’s writing-table, their chair 
that was to be his special one, his favourite books, 
just where she felt sure he would like them to be; 
and while she was so employed she was almost 
happy. It seemed as though any moment he might 
come in. 

Only when each day’s task was over, and she 
strove to concentrate her mind on reading or sew¬ 
ing, the thought of him in his bare prison room was 
almost more than she could endure, and slow, quiet 
tears would fall on the work or the page, while in 
her ears and in her aching heart echoed that haunt¬ 
ing strain, last heard in Canterbury Cathedral on 
that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday after their 
marriage: 

Hear my prayer, O Lord, incline thine ear: 

Consider, O consider the voice of my complaint. 

It seemed now to have been prophetic! 

She never spoke to Roger of these her dark hours, 
nor he to her of his own; but they both knew. 
There was no need of words. 

Rather, in those precious minutes when they were 
together, they recalled that brief interlude at St. 
Margaret’s, those “immortal hours” when little 


DARK HOURS 


191 


Miss Culpepper had hovered around them like a 
quaint, tutelary goddess. 

I ve had another letter from Miss Culpepper,” 
Grace told him one day. “Full of flourishes as 
usual, dear old thing. She’s so upset at the idea 
that I haven’t even one maid that if I said half a 
word I believe she would come up herself and take 
charge of me!” 

“I wish you would say the half word, darling,” 
Roger urged, not for the first time. 

“I know; but I really can’t. Think of her here 
in London; it would be like pulling up a little old 
silver birch from a forest glade and sticking it in 
Shaftesbury Avenue!” 

“I hate to think of your being alone,” he said 
wistfully. 

“You mustn’t think of it! I’m a great deal bet¬ 
ter by myself than I should be with anyone else in 
the world just now. And I have lots of visitors: 
daddy pretty often, of course, and Winnie when she 
is at home, though she’s been away so much lately— 
more engagements than ever this winter, and most 
of them in the country, worse luck!” 

“So Austin’s left at a loose end, eh?” 

“I suppose so. I haven’t seen him for some days. 
Winnie will be back for Christmas.” 

“You’re going to her then?” he asked quickly. 

“I’m going about with her. As usual, we shall 
have quite a big day—a midday dinner in Bermond¬ 
sey, high tea and a Christmas tree at Battersea, and 
a beano for the padre’s poorest, and possibly black¬ 
est, sheep in the evening. Winnie will be a bright 
particular star, of course—they’d keep her singing 


192 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


for hours if they could! While I shall be just an 
all-round helper, in my old canteen get-up.” 

“Good! I shall be thinking of you all the time. 
But don’t wear yourself out, darling,” he said 
tenderly. 

It was no new thing for her to devote herself 
through most of the season of conventional “festiv¬ 
ity” to the poorest of her fellow-creatures, bringing 
a few hours of mirth and warmth and good fare to 
the starving and the squalid, giving to many of them 
fresh hope and strength that perhaps might help 
them to struggle out of the abyss of misery and 
destitution into which they had fallen. 

Last year he had been with her, and a wonderful 
experience it was—an utter revelation to him of the 
grim underworld of humanity here in the greatest 
city of the world, the very heart of “Christian” 
civilization! Very many of the guests they had 
then helped to entertain had passed most of their 
lives in prison: now the prison walls had closed 
around himself. He indeed was innocent; he had 
not sunk into the grim underworld—had not as 
yet endured the lot of a common convict; but al¬ 
ready he could sympathize, as never before, with 
the prisoners and captives, with all who suffered, 
whether for their own sins or for the sins of others. 

“Oh, I shan’t wear myself out,” Grace assured 
him. “I shall be happier on duty. Mother is go¬ 
ing down to Hove, as usual, and insists on father 
going too. He doesn’t want to, but it’s less trouble 
to give way than to argue the point; and the change 
may do him good. He’s not very fit, poor daddy!” 


DARK HOURS 


193 


In fact that poor professor was having a very 
trying time at home, for Mrs. Armitage furiously 
resented the fact that he had contributed the 
utmost amount he could raise to the fund for 
Roger’s defence, and on the rare occasions when 
she saw her daughter made Grace writhe under the 
sense of obligation, that was far more distressing 
than any consideration of her mother’s utter lack of 
sympathy; she had been accustomed to that from 
her early childhood, and it had long ceased to hurt 
her. 

It did seem hard that she should feel more humil¬ 
iation in accepting this loan from her own people 
than in accepting those from friends—Austin Starr 
and the Winstons and the dear jolly padre, Mr. 
Iverson, who had all been as good as their word. 
But she never let Roger have a hint of this; kept 
from him, so far as she could, everything disquiet¬ 
ing, even the fact that there was still a lot of money 
needed, and had begged Mr. Spedding, the lawyer, 
not to reveal this to him. 

“We shall have quite sufficient in good time, by 
the New Year,” she assured Spedding, on such oc¬ 
casions as the point was raised in the course of their 
many conferences. 

She had already made arrangements to raise the 
utmost possible on their wedding presents, and 
everything else of value that they possessed; also, 
if necessary, to sell up the furniture they had bought 
so gaily and lovingly in the months before their 
marriage, and so break up the home which, to “get 
ready for Roger” had been her great solace in this 


194 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


awful interval; and where she was now living 
frugally as any nun, denying herself everything be¬ 
yond the barest necessaries of life, in order that 
she might save. 

And with all this there would not be enough. 
Where the balance was to come from she did not 
know, racked her poor brains to discover, sought to 
buoy her mind with the faith that her prayers would 
be answered, that help and guidance would come in 
time. 

She brooded anxiously over it again to-day as she 
made her way back to Westminster. As usual, af¬ 
ter parting with Roger reaction followed the joy 
of the meeting, and a sense of utter desolation was 
upon her. If Winnie had been at home she would 
have gone along to Chelsea before returning to 
the loneliness of the little flat at the very top of a 
big block. As it was, she lingered aimlessly out¬ 
side the station, staring with sad, unseeing eyes into 
the nearest shop window, then made her way 
through to St. James’s Park, and sat down on the 
seat inside the gates by the bridge. 

It was a chilly, wistful winter afternoon, the 
westering sun showing like a dim red ball through 
the haze. Very few people were about; near at 
hand there were but two strolling towards her— 
a young couple in earnest conversation. 

She looked at them dully, then with quickened in¬ 
terest, as she recognized the man as Austin Starr, 
bending from his great height to listen attentively 
to his companion—a very attractive-looking girl, 
even in the distance, who was talking with anima¬ 
tion. Any casual observer would have imagined 


DARK HOURS 


195 


them a pair of young lovers, and Grace felt an in¬ 
stant and curious sense of dismay. 

It flashed to her mind that she had not seen Austin 
once at the Winstons’ flat during the few days’ in¬ 
terval when Winnie had been at home, though for 
months before their engagement, which had come 
about so suddenly in the midst of her own trouble, 
there was seldom a day that he did not turn up early 
or late, for a few minutes at least. Also that Win¬ 
nie had been strangely reticent about him, though, 
absorbed in her own anxieties, she had not given a 
second thought to that. 

As they drew near she half rose from her seat, but 
resumed it. They passed, evidently too intent on 
each other to spare a glance for anyone else, and 
as they did so she heard the girl say, in a rich, vi¬ 
brant voice, peculiarly distinct in the quietude: 

“It may be as you say, but what does Sir Robert 
want with him?” 

Sir Robert! Of whom were they speaking? 
Could it be Sir Robert Rawson? 

She could not hear Austin’s reply, and though she 
started up impulsively she did not follow them— 
merely watched them cross the bridge and disappear 
from view. 

She guessed that the girl was Cacciola’s niece, 
whom Austin certainly had mentioned when he told 
her of his visit, and of the disappointing result of 
his inquiries up to the present, but only in a casual 
manner. He must have developed the acquaintance 
swiftly in these few weeks! 

She walked slowly back, turning the matter over 
in her mind perplexedly. 


196 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“There’s a lady waiting to see you, ma’am,” said 
the lift-man, a cheery, grizzled old veteran, and one 
of her staunch admirers. 

“Waiting—where ?” 

“Why on the landing outside your door, ma’am. 
Sitting on a box she came with. I wanted her to 
come down to my missus, knowing you were out, but 
she wouldn’t.” 

He swung open the lift-gates and Grace stepped 
out. 

There, outside her door, as he had said, sitting on 
a small tin box, with an open basket beside her and 
something that looked like a little black fur muff 
cuddled in her arms—cold, tired, travel-stained but 
quite cheerful—was little Miss Culpepper! 


CHAPTER XX 


AN OLD ROMANCE 

44 my dear Mrs. Carling, don’t be vexed 
1 1 with me!” cried Miss Culpepper, rising 

and fluttering towards Grace. “I’ve 
been fretting so about you being here all alone, and 
now I’ve had the good fortune to let the cottage for 
three months, and all the money paid in advance, I 
felt I must come straight up, without asking your 
permission. And—and I’ve brought Dear Brutus 
too. He’s been so good through the journey.” 

“You darling!” cried Grace, and just hugged her, 
kitten and all. “Come in. How cold and tired 
you must be ! And, oh, how glad I am to see you!” 

Indeed, there was no one in the world, save Roger 
himself, whom she would have welcomed more 
gladly at this moment than the quaint little woman. 
It was extraordinary how her very presence dis¬ 
pelled that tragic, unutterable loneliness which had 
always hitherto assailed her when she returned to 
this her solitary nest, so lovingly prepared for the 
mate who might never come home to it. 

As she flitted about, preparing tea for her unex¬ 
pected guest, despite Miss Culpepper’s protests that 
she “hadn’t come to be waited on,” caressing Dear 
Brutus and laughing at his antics, listening to the 

old lady’s vivacious account of her journey, of the 
197 


198 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


new tenants, and of the arrangements made for 
Cleopatra, whom Miss Culpepper had left as a 
“paying guest” with her friend at St. Margaret’s, 
she felt more cheerful than she had done since the 
day when the black shadow fell on her and Roger, 
eclipsing their honeymoon, severing them perhaps 
for ever. 

If Miss Culpepper had had her own way she 
would immediately have taken possession of the di¬ 
minutive kitchen, and remained there, but that Grace 
would not hear of for a moment. 

“Indeed, I want you to treat me just as an or¬ 
dinary servant, except that I don’t want any pay or 
to be a burden on you in any way,” the old lady de¬ 
clared. “You see, I was in service all my life, with 
very good families, too, till I saved enough money 
to buy the cottage and set up for myself. So I do 
know my place, dear Mrs. Carling, and I shouldn’t 
have assumed to come to you, uninvited, under any 
other circumstances.” 

“You’re going to stay as my dear and honoured 
and most welcome guest,” Grace assured her. 
“And I promise you that in every other respect you 
shall have all your own way, and cherish me as much 
as ever you like, when you are rested.” 

Miss Culpepper’s anxious, loving old eyes had al¬ 
ready noted the changes which these weeks of sor¬ 
row and anxiety had wrought in the girl since those 
few days of radiant happiness at the cottage. She 
looked, indeed, more beautiful than ever, but with a 
pathetic, etherealized beauty, fragile to a degree. 

“It’s high time somebody came to take care of 
her; she’s on the very verge of a breakdown,” Miss 


AN OLD ROMANCE 


199 


Culpepper inwardly decided, and unobtrusively en¬ 
tered on her self-imposed labour of love. Within 
twenty-four hours she and Dear Brutus were as 
much at home in the little flat as if they had lived 
there all their lives—and the cheerful confidence 
with which she regarded the future, as it concerned 
Roger and Grace, was an unspeakable comfort to 
her young hostess, while her amazing phraseology 
was entertaining as ever, and provided Grace with a 
new occupation—that of committing to memory the 
quaintest of the old lady’s expressions in order to 
retail them to Roger when next she visited him. 

“Never fear that everything will be made clear in 
the long run, and your dear husband triumphantly 
vitiated,” she declared. “It’s terribly hard for you 
both now, but keep your courage up, mettez votre 
suspirance in Dieu: that means ‘put your hope in 
God,’ as I dare say you know. You’ll wonder 
where I picked up such a lot of French,” she con¬ 
tinued complacently. “It was when I was a girl 
living in Paris with one of my ladies, and I’ve never 
forgotten it in all these years.” 

She sighed, and lapsed into silence, gazing medi¬ 
tatively into the fire. Grace, lying on the sofa, with 
Dear Brutus curled up in her arms, watched the 
wistful, gentle old face, and wondered what the 
little woman was pondering over. 

“How long were you in Paris?” she asked 
presently. 

Miss Culpepper started, and resumed her knit¬ 
ting with a slightly flurried action. 

“I’m afraid I was relevee in the past,” she con¬ 
fessed. “I was only there for about two years— 


200 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


the very happiest in all my life: at least the last 
year was. Then my lady’s husband died suddenly 
—he was Sir Henry Robinson, who had a post at the 
Embassy, a very nice gentleman though a little 
pomptious sometimes—and the establishment had to 
be broken up. I came back to England, and soon 
got another place, a very good one—again with a 
lady of title, where I stayed for many years. And 
—and that’s all!” 

Again she was silent, apparently absorbed in her 
knitting, but Grace saw two tears roll down her 
withered cheeks, and wondered more than ever what 
train of remembrance had roused the old lady’s 
emotion, though she did not like to question her 
further. 

They both started as the front door bell sounded. 

“I’ll go,” said Grace, rising, “I expect it is my 
father.” 

It was not the professor, but a small, spare, very 
neatly dressed old man, whom at first she did not 
recognize. 

“Mrs. Carling?” he asked. “I must introduce 
myself, madam. My name is Thomson.” 

She knew him then, though she had only seen him 
once previously, when he had given evidence at the 
police court on the return of the stolen papers to 
his master, Sir Robert Rawson. 

“Mr. Thomson!” she exclaimed. “You—you 
have come from Sir Robert Rawson?” 

“Not precisely, madam; though I am in Sir 
Robert’s service. I came on my own account to 
beg the favour of a few minutes’ conversation.” 

“Certainly. Do come in,” she said, her pulses 


AN OLD ROMANCE 


201 


fluttered with the wild hope that this old servant, 
whom Roger so liked and trusted, might have some¬ 
thing of importance to communicate. 

As he followed her through the little hall he 
glanced with an expression of surprise at a hat and 
coat hanging there, which he recognized as Roger’s; 
at several walking-sticks in a*rack, at a sling of golf 
clubs in the corner, and, as he entered the dining¬ 
room, looked across at once at the writing-table by 
the window, and the little table with pipe-rack, 
tobacco jar, and match stand beside it. 

“Excuse me, madam,” he said quickly, “but is 
Mr. Carling at home—has he been released?” 

Grace turned in surprise. 

“No. What makes you ask that, Mr. Thom¬ 
son?” 

“I’m sure I beg your pardon, madam; but I saw 
Mr. Carling’s things in the hall and his table there, 
just as he liked to have it when he was with Sir 
Robert, and I thought—I hoped-” 

“They are ready for his home-coming,” said 
Grace. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Thomson? 
This is my friend, Miss Culpepper. Why, do you 
know each other?” 

For Miss Culpepper, who had risen hastily at 
their entrance, was staring at Thomson in a most 
curious and agitated manner. “It can’t be—yes, 
it is!” she gasped. “James—James Thomson— 
don’t you know me?” 

He looked at her inquiringly and shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, madam, you have the advantage of 
me. What name did you say?” 

“Maria Culpepper, that was maid to Lady Rob- 



202 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


inson when you were Sir Henry’s valet. I was 
thinking of you, and of those old days not five min¬ 
utes ago. You’ve forgotten me years ago, I can 
see that, but I’ve never forgotten you, James, 
though you never wrote as you said you would!” 

He put up his gloved hand and rubbed his chin 
meditatively, then removed the glove and extended 
the hand with conventional politeness. 

“To be sure, Miss Maria. I remember you now, 
though it’s a good many years ago. I’ve been with 
Sir Robert near forty years. Strange to meet you 
again like this—very strange; and with Mrs. Car¬ 
ling’s permission I might call some night and have 
a chat over old times, but I’m a bit pressed for 
time just now, and have something urgent and 
private to say to Mrs. Carling.” 

“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll go at once,” murmured 
poor little Miss Culpepper, hastily gathering up her 
knitting which had fallen to the floor, and making a 
courageous attempt to recover her wonted dignity. 
“Good night, James. I—I shall be very glad to 
see you again, as you say, one of these days.” 

Grace accompanied her to the door, dismissed her 
with a kiss, and whispered a word of sympathy, 
then returned to Thomson, feeling more bewildered 
than ever. 

“How very extraordinary that you and Miss Cul¬ 
pepper should be old friends,” she said, motioning 
him to a chair. 

“Thank you, madam. Quite so,” he responded, 
seating himself bolt upright on the extreme edge of 
the chair, and holding his bowler hat on his knees. 


AN OLD ROMANCE 


203 


“I am sorry I did not remember the old lady at first. 
She was quite young then, as I was—a very nice 
young woman, now I come to think of it. Indeed, 
if I remember rightly, I had the intention at one 
time of asking her to he Mrs. Thomson, but fate 
intervened and we drifted apart.” 

His manner, formal, precise, irreproachably re¬ 
spectful, yet seemed somehow curiously callous, and 
exasperated Grace, on behalf of her poor little 
friend. 

“Evidently she has never forgotten you, Mr. 
Thomson,” she said, with some warmth. “And she 
is the kindest and most loyal little creature in the 
world. She would have made a good and most lov¬ 
ing wife.” 

“Quite so, madam. But even at the time I 
doubted if I was cut out for matrimony, and I have 
never seriously contemplated it since.” 

“Why did you come to see me?” she asked point 
blank, as he paused, and sat gazing, not at her, but 
at the crown of his hat. 

“It’s a little difficult to explain, madam,” he said, 
raising his eyes for a moment, but without meeting 
her direct gaze. “And first I beg of you not to 
consider it an impertinence. Then—may I ask if 
Mr. Carling has ever spoken of me to you?” 

“Often—and always in the very highest terms.” 

“That was like him,” said Thomson, with more 
feeling in his dry voice than he had yet exhibited. 
“Except my master, Sir Robert, there’s no gentle¬ 
man in the world I respect so much, or who I’d 
sooner serve than Mr. Carling. He was always the 


204 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


same, always treated me like a human being and not 
a servant, or a stock or stone. Madam, I’d do any¬ 
thing in the world that I could to serve him!” 

“I believe you, Mr. Thomson. Thank you,” 
said Grace softly, telling herself that she had mis¬ 
judged the man. 

“This terrible charge that has been brought 
against Mr. Carling has upset me more than any¬ 
thing has done for years, madam,” he resumed: 
“that and the fact that my master believes him to be 
guilty and has turned against him altogether. I 
can’t understand it. Sir Robert ought to have 
known him better. I have presumed several times 
to try to remonstrate with my master, but he won’t 
hear a word even from me. It’s—well, really, 
madam, it’s been a great grief to me, for it’s the 
only serious difference Sir Robert and I have ever 
had in all the years that I have served him.” 

“It’s a great comfort to me—and it will be to my 
husband—to know that you are so loyal to him, Mr. 
Thomson,” Grace said earnestly, greatly touched, 
but wondering more and more what had prompted 
the old man to come to her now. 

“Thank you, madam. Though that is not ac¬ 
tually what I took the liberty of coming here to 
say,” he responded, as if in some uncanny manner he 
had read her unuttered thought. “It was to ask 
if you have arranged for Mr. Carling’s defence?” 

A wild hope flashed to her mind. 

“Mr. Thomson! Is it possible that you know of 
anything—that you have any information that 
would help to clear him?” 

He shook his head. 


AN OLD ROMANCE 


205 


“Unfortunately, I know nothing whatever of Mr. 
Carling’s movements on that fatal day, madam, be¬ 
yond what I have heard and read as stated in evi¬ 
dence. That was not what I meant. He must 
have the best defence that money can obtain.” 

“Yes^ And I hope—I think—we have arranged 
that Mr. Cummings-Browne, the famous K.C., will 
undertake the defence.” 

“Very good, madam. But I understand that 
these big legal gentlemen come very costly; and— 
I’m sure you will pardon me, and take the question 
as it is meant, as confidential and most respectful 
I do assure you, but—have you got the money in 
hand?” 

“The greater part of it; and I shall get the rest 
by the time it is needed.” 

“Might I make bold to ask how much is still 
wanted ?” 

“About five hundred pounds,” she replied, watch¬ 
ing him perplexedly, while he continued to gaze 
down at his hat. 

There was a little pause. Then: 

“That’s what I was afraid of, madam, knowing 
that Mr. Carling couldn’t be by any means wealthy,” 
he said slowly, and putting his hat on the table, un¬ 
buttoned his overcoat and from an inner pocket 
fetched out a worn and bulky leather case. “That’s 
just why I came here to-night, madam. I’ve 
thought about it constant for weeks past, but it was 
a bit difficult to know how to do it without giving 
offence—though, in a matter of life and death, which 
is what this is, a lady like you and a gentleman like 
Mr. Carling wouldn’t take offence where none was 


206 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


meant. I’ve got five hundred and fifty pounds in 
Bank of England notes; they’re all my own, they’re 
not a quarter of my savings—for I’ve had good 
wages these many years and never any expenses to 
speak of, and I’ve invested well and regular. And 
now I beg you and Mr. Carling to do me the honour 
of accepting this as a loan—and as much again and 
more if it should be wanted—to be repaid any time, 
it doesn’t matter how many years hence.” 

As he spoke he opened the case, extracted a sheaf 
of crisp white bank-notes, opened, smoothed them, 
laid them on the table, and rose, adding, “I think 
you’ll find there are twenty-eight—twenty-seven 
twenties and one ten.” 

Grace had listened, too utterly amazed for 
speech; and now she, too, rose, in tearful, trembling 
agitation. 

“Oh! Mr. Thomson, what can I say? It is 
too noble, too generous ! But—I—we—can’t 
really-” she cried incoherently. 

“Please, madam, please!” he said, more hur¬ 
riedly than he had yet spoken, and edging his way 
towards the door. “I’m not going to take them up 
nor touch them any more. The—the honour and 
the privilege is mine, and I’d take it kindly if you 
wouldn’t mention the matter to Mr. Carling or to 
anyone; it’s just between you and me, if you don’t 
mind, madam. My respectful duty to Mr. Carling 
when you’re able to see him, madam.” 

He was now in full retreat across the little hall, 
his hand actually on the latch of the door. 

“Wait one minute,” she pleaded distractedly. 
“At least let me try to thank you—try to say what 



AN OLD ROMANCE 


207 


I feel and think; or do come back to see your old 
friend, Miss Culpepper-” 

But he had the door open and was already out¬ 
side. 

“Thank you kindly, madam. I would be very 
glad to call one evening and have a chat with Maria 
over old times. And please don’t be so distressed, 
madam.” 

With that he was gone, passing like a grey shadow 
down the staircase, leaving Grace staring after him 
through her tears. 

“And he didn’t even let me shake hands with 
him!” she thought, as she went in and shut the door. 



CHAPTER XXI 


THE CHINESE ROOM 

W HEN he reached the street Thomson dis¬ 
covered that he had left his right-hand 
glove in Mrs. Carling’s flat. Not worth 
returning for it, he decided, thrusting his hand into 
his overcoat pocket. He would go round as he had 
suggested some evening and renew his acquaintance 
with Maria Culpepper—little Maria, whose very ex¬ 
istence he had forgotten for so many years. The 
glove would provide an excuse. 

Strange, indeed, to meet her again in their old 
age, like a ghost of the past. As he walked slowly 
along Buckingham Gate he deliberately and more or 
less successfully tried to recall recollections of those 
youthful days in Paris, and found it quite an inter¬ 
esting experiment—as interesting as turning out 
some old cupboard full of forgotten relics and 
rubbish. 

“Yes, she was a pretty little creature,” he con¬ 
cluded. “Cheerful as a bird, and a nice hand at 
cribbage she could play too—very nice. P’r’aps she 
can still. I wonder where we’d have been now if 
we hadn’t drifted apart? It was her fault though; 
for, now I come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I did 
write, and she never answered. Well, well.” 

Still musing, he made his way back to Grosvenor 
Gardens. It was nominally his “evening out,” an 
208 


THE CHINESE ROOM 


209 


institution Sir Robert had recently insisted on re¬ 
viving. Thomson himself wanted no evening out— 
wanted nothing but to continue to tend the stricken 
master whom he served with such silent, dogged, and 
dog-like devotion. It was still early, only just after 
eight o’clock, and he meant to spend the remainder 
of this his leisure evening in his own room, within 
call if he should be needed. 

As he neared the great house, so silent and dark 
in these days, with the shadow of tragedy still 
heavy upon it, he saw a motor car before the door, 
and quickened his pace, fearing that Sir Robert 
might have had a relapse and that this was the doc¬ 
tor’s car. He was reassured as he recognized the 
car as Lord Warrington’s Rolls-Royce, but at the 
same instant experienced a minor shock; for a tall, 
slender man, wearing a furred overcoat, approach¬ 
ing from the opposite direction, paused, looked up 
at the house, and then knocked and rang. That 
man was Boris Melikoff. 

Earl Warrington and Melikoff both visiting Sir 
Robert together! What was in the wind now, he 
asked himself perplexedly, as, unobserved, he went 
down the area steps and let himself in at the base¬ 
ment door. Much-privileged servant that he was, 
he had for years possessed his own latchkey, and 
came and went as he chose, accountable to none but 
his master. 

By the back staircase he made his way to the first 
floor and entered his own room—a fair sized, com¬ 
fortable apartment at the end of the suite occupied 
by his master, and with a door that led direct into 
Sir Robert’s bedroom. 


210 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Before the fire, in the one easy chair, reading an 
evening paper, was a nice-looking fresh-complex- 
ioned young man, Perkins, the male nurse, who, with 
Thomson himself, took charge of the invalid. 

“I didn’t expect you back so soon, Mr. Thomson,” 
he said, rising deferentially. “Sir Robert’s had his 
dinner all right, and there’s a gentleman with him 
now.” 

“Yes—Lord Warrington,” said Thomson, re¬ 
moving his overcoat and hanging it in a cupboard. 

“Really, sir? I didn’t know, of course. I 
gather that he came unexpected. But Sir Robert’s 
expecting another gentleman directly. I was going 
to have my supper sent up here as you were out, but 
now-” 

“That’s all right, Perkins, you go and have it 
downstairs, it’s livelier for you,” said Thomson, 
kindly enough. “And don’t hurry yourself. I 
shall be at hand now if anything’s wanted. Tell 
them to send mine up as usual about half-past nine.” 

Seating himself, he picked up the paper, and Per¬ 
kins promptly retreated. The servants’ quarters 
were indeed by far the most cheerful in that grim 
house! 

Thomson waited for two or three minutes, then 
rose, and with his usual noiseless tread passed 
through into Sir Robert’s bedroom, illuminated only 
by a cheerful fire, and stood, listening intently. 

No sound could be heard from the further room 
—the “Chinese Drawing-room,” which did not com¬ 
municate directly with this—where Sir Robert and 
his visitor were; and Thomson moved to the door, 
opened it very slightly and stood, again listening. 



THE CHINESE ROOM 


211 


Soon he heard far off the tinkle of an elec¬ 
tric bell, and rightly guessed it a summons to 
Jenkins, the butler, whose soft footsteps and pursy 
breathing thereupon sounded ascending the stair¬ 
case. Then a murmur of voices from the Chinese 
Room: Lord Warrington’s cheery tones, “Well, 
good-bye, old man! I’m glad indeed to see you so 
well on the way to recovery. I’ll look in again soon 
if I may’’; and retreating footsteps on the thick 
carpet. 

Swiftly, Thomson emerged from his retreat, 
crossed the spacious landing, and entered a door to 
the left, closing it silently behind him. This room 
was in darkness, except for the faint greenish, 
ghostly light from a street lamp that penetrated the 
jade-green silk curtains, and the air was oppressive 
with the fragrance of flowers, roses, violets, narcissi. 

It was Lady Rawson’s boudoir, kept, by Sir 
Robert’s orders, exactly as it had been in her life¬ 
time, the flowers frequently renewed, books and 
magazines placed there daily, as if ready for their 
mistress. A strange, uncanny atmosphere per¬ 
vaded the luxurious room. The servants dreaded 
it, the housemaids whose duty it was to tend it 
worked in pairs, and scurried away the moment 
their task was finished. The only exception was 
Thomson himself, who usually arranged the flowers 
and periodicals before wheeling his master in for his 
daily visit, remaining beside him in imperturbable, 
unobtrusive attendance. 

Unerringly, stepping as lightly as a cat on the soft 
carpet, he made his way across to the opposite wall, 
where a dark patch showed against the whiteness, 


212 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


portieres of jade-green velvet that masked folding 
doors leading into the Chinese Room. On the other 
side the doorway was concealed by magnificent cur¬ 
tains of black and gold embroidery in a dragon de¬ 
sign, that had a very curious feature—one that 
Thomson had discovered by pure accident. The 
eyes of the dragons were pierced with large eyelet 
holes, invisible from even a short distance, but 
through which a perfect bird’s-eye view could be ob¬ 
tained of the room beyond. 

The doors were closed but not latched, and it was 
the work of an instant cautiously to swing them 
open sufficiently to clear the two nearest peep-holes, 
just at a convenient level to Thomson’s eyes. 

Sir Robert was lying on his wheeled couch before 
the fire, with his back towards the screened portal 
and the hidden watcher, who, however, could see 
his master’s face reflected in a great lacquered mir¬ 
ror on the opposite wall. A remarkable face, aged, 
drawn, but also refined by these long weeks of suf¬ 
fering and sorrow. Under the short, carefully 
trimmed white beard which had been allowed to 
grow during his illness his square jaw was firm and 
relentless, as his steel-grey eyes were keen as ever 
beneath their grey penthouse brows. 

He turned his head slightly as the door opened 
and Jenkins announced 

“Mr. Boris Melikoff.” 

“It is very good of you to come, Mr. Melikoff,” 
Sir Robert said, with grave courtesy, extending his 
hand, over which the young man bowed respectfully. 
“I cannot rise to receive you. I am quite helpless as 
you see. Will you sit in that chair?” 


THE CHINESE ROOM 


213 


Boris complied. The chair, as Thomson had al¬ 
ready noted, was placed so that the lamplight would 
fall full on the face of the visitor, leaving that of his 
host in shadow, an invariable device of the old 
diplomatist at important interviews. 

For a few seconds the old man and the young one 
looked at each other warily, like a couple of fencers 
preparing for a bout, then Rawson’s stern gaze 
softened. 

“You are very like my dear wife,” he said quietly, 
“so like her that you might almost have been 
brother and sister rather than cousins.” 

The Russian’s handsome, sensitive face relaxed 
responsively. 

“Many people have said so, sir, who knew us 
both,” he replied. 

“You wonder why I sent for you?” 

“Yes, sir—naturally.” 

“Naturally. And yet I myself scarcely know why 
I did so, except-” 

He paused, and Boris waited. Not for long. 

“Why didn’t you two trust me?” 

Sir Robert’s deep voice quivered with poignant 
emotion, and, though he controlled his features, his 
eyes betrayed an agony of regret and reproach. 

“I—I don’t know, sir,” stammered Boris. “I 
think—we—believed—feared that you were the 
enemy of our unhappy country; that—in your 
position-” 

“I the enemy of Russia—of the real Russia? 
Paula could never have thought that.” 

“She did indeed, sir,” said Boris earnestly. “Or 
perhaps it would be more truthful to say that she 




214 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


believed you set your duty to your Government 
above all personal sympathy.” 

“She was right there,” Sir Robert rejoined sternly. 
“To a man in the position I once held duty must 
always come first, if he is to be worthy of that 
position. But if she had trusted me—as I never 
doubted she did till it was too late—if she had told 
me what was in her heart, in her mind, and that she 
was meeting—wishing to aid—her compatriots, her 
kinsfolk, how gladly, how greatly I could have 
helped her and them! But she told me nothing— 
not even of your existence. Yet surely she did not, 
she could not, have feared me?” 

“Not personally, sir,” Boris answered slowly. 
“Paula was absolutely fearless; also she honoured 
and—^yes, and loved you, though more as a daughter 
than-” 

“Than as a wife. I know that. You are very 
honest, Mr. Melikoff! Well?” 

“But I think—or rather I know—that she wanted 
to—to play her own hand herself in a way. To 
take all risks, and not to involve you-” 

“Not involve me I Do you realize that by her 
action—her fatal action in taking those papers—• 
she might have involved the whole of Europe in 
catastrophe?” 

“I knew nothing of that, sir,” said Boris de¬ 
jectedly. 

“Quite so. I have satisfied myself on that point, 
through sources quite unknown to you; otherwise 
you would not be here now but in all probability 
would have been deported weeks ago, to meet what¬ 
ever fate might be in store for you in your own 




THE CHINESE ROOM 


215 


country,” said Sir Robert grimly. “However, let 
that pass. Tell me this, Mr. Melikoff—I have a 
right to know: you loved each other, you two foolish 
and headstrong children?” 

Boris met his searching gaze sadly but steadily. 

“I loved her, Sir Robert; and I have loved her 
ever since we were little children together. But she 
never loved me. I do not think Paula ever loved 
any man—not in the sense most of us mean by the 
word.” 

“Again I believe you, and not without evidence.” 
He drew towards him a carved sandalwood casket 
that stood on a small table beside him, opened it, 
and took out a thin packet of letters which Boris 
recognized as his own. “I have here a number of 
your letters to her. I have read them all. They 
are not ‘love letters,’ but I know from them that 
you loved her, without hope and without reward. 
Would you like to have them again? In some ways 
they are dangerous documents to be in any custody 
but your own.” 

He passed the packet to Boris, who took it with 
a trembling hand. 

“Sir Robert, you are too good—too generous! 
What can I say?” 

“Say nothing. And if you will take my advice 
put them in the fire. It is the safest place for 
them.” 

Simply as a child Boris obeyed on the instant, and 
in silence they watched the packet consumed to a 
little mass of black ashes. 

“I have but one letter of hers, sir,” said Boris 
presently. “The last she ever wrote me, and there- 


216 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


fore most precious. It is very brief. Would you 
—care to read it?” 

He unfolded the letter—it was but a half-sheet— 
with a lingering, reverent touch, and held it towards 
Sir Robert. 

“No, no, keep it, lad. It is yours and sacred,” 
the old man said after a moment’s hesitation. “As 
I have said, I believe you and trust you. That was 
the only one she wrote?” 

“Oh, no, sir! There were several others. Mere 
formal notes like this, in Russian or sometimes in 
French. I ought to have destroyed them at once— 
she told me to; and they are lost, or they have been 
stolen from me.” 

“Stolen!” 

“I fear so, sir, though when or how I cannot say. 
I was ill, very ill, for a time after Paula’s—death. 
They were in an escritoire in my bedroom, and after 
I recovered I found they were gone.” 

“Do you suspect anyone?” 

Boris shook his head. 

“Impossible to suspect the good friend with whom 
I live, or any of my visitors. I have wondered 
sometimes whether, in my delirium, I might not my¬ 
self have destroyed them, on some subconscious im¬ 
pulse, remembering that she had told me to burn 
them. They could not possibly be of any value, or 
of any danger, to anyone. Except to myself, they 
were quite meaningless, and with nothing but the 
hand-writing itself to show by whom they were 
written.” 

“Strange,” mused Sir Robert. “You are sure 
they were as harmless, as meaningless, as you say?” 


THE CHINESE ROOM 


217 


“Quite sure. And may I say this, Sir Robert? 
I am certain that when Paula took those papers 
from your safe—as I fear there is no doubt she 
did—that it was the very first time she had done or 
attempted to do such a thing: that she yielded to a 
sudden and overwhelming temptation.” 

“I wish I could believe that,” said Sir Robert with 
stern sadness. 

“You may believe it, sir, for it is the truth. She 
would have told me of any such attempt, and I give 
you my word—believe it or not as you choose—that 
I should have attempted to dissuade her. I am a 
fighter—or I was one, when I could fight and could 
see my enemy—but I am no intriguer, nor was she 
really. She bewildered me often by her romantic 
schemes—they were so wild, so vague—but I hu¬ 
moured her in them, because I loved her, because it 
brought her nearer to me. It—oh, how can I put 
it?—it was like child’s play, though she herself was 
so much in earnest.” 

“Child’s play!” echoed Sir Robert bitterly. 
“Child’s play that cost her life, and that will cost 
the life of the one whom, next to her, I cared for 
most in this world! I tell you, Melikoff-” 

He broke off, and Boris looked at him in surprise 
and apprehension. But Sir Robert was not looking 
at him; he was staring into the big, lacquered 
mirror, and his face had become absolutely expres¬ 
sionless. 

“One moment,” he said quietly, and touched a 
button of an electric bell-stand on the table beside 
him, without removing his gaze from the mirror. 

“Can I do anything?” Boris began, and paused 



218 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


as Sir Robert lifted his hand warningly. He ap¬ 
peared to be listening intently. 

In about a couple of minutes Thomson entered the 
room. 

“Oh, it’s you, Thomson,” said Sir Robert quietly. 
“I thought you were out?” 

“I returned some time ago, sir.” 

“Where is Perkins?” 

“Downstairs at supper, Sir Robert.” 

“Oh! Will you put on the lights in Lady Raw- 
son’s boudoir? Go through this way, please,” Sir 
Robert added as Thomson moved towards the door 
by which he had entered. 

“Very good, sir,” he answered, and imperturbably 
drew back the dragon curtains, pushed back the 
partly opened doors, switched on the lights in the 
inner room, and returned for further orders. 

“I should like you to see that room, Mr. Meli- 
koff,” said Sir Robert. “It is my dear wife’s boudoir. 
Will you come with me? Wheel me in, Thomson.” 

As Thomson obeyed, his master’s keen glance 
swept over the beautiful room. 

“The outer door is open. Close and lock it and 
give me the key,” he commanded, and, when Thom¬ 
son had complied, added, “thank you. That will 
do for the present. I will ring when I need you 
again.” 

Thomson retreated through the Chinese Room, 
went to the bedroom and mechanically tended the 
fire, then to his own room, where he sat down and 
waited. 

It was half an hour or more before he was again 
summoned, and then he found Sir Robert alone. 


THE CHINESE ROOM 


219 


The dragon curtains were still pulled apart, but the 
folding doors of the boudoir were closed and 
locked. 

Master and man looked steadily at each other for 
a good half-minute, then Sir Robert said: 

“For how long have you been in the habit of spy¬ 
ing on me, Thomson?” 

“I have never done such a thing before, sir.” 

“Humph! I wonder if that is true? It is some¬ 
thing at least that you do not attempt to deny that 
you were spying on me to-night. Why did you do 
it?” 

“Need you ask that, Sir Robert? It was by 
chance that I discovered that Russian gentleman was 
coming to see you. I thought it a very dangerous 
thing for you to see him alone.” 

“When I pay you to ‘think’ I’ll tell you so,” Sir 
Robert replied icily. “I am still able to think for 
myself, Thomson.” 

A quiver of emotion passed over Thomson’s 
usually passive face. 

“I’m sorry, Sir Robert; it was an error of judg¬ 
ment on my part. It shall not occur again. I—I 
have served you faithfully these many years.” 

“I never said you hadn’t. But remember in 
future, please, that excess of zeal is sometimes more 
dangerous than a deficiency of that otherwise excel¬ 
lent commodity. And now you had better call Per¬ 
kins to help you put me to bed.” 

“Very good, sir,” said Thomson. 


CHAPTER XXII 


A PEACEMAKER 

O N Christmas morning Grace Carling knelt 
before the altar in Westminster Abbey, 
where, as usual at this early service, there 
were but a few worshippers. 

Through the vast, dim spaces above, beyond the 
radiance of the lighted chancel, the soft coo of the 
pigeons outside was distinctly audible above the low 
tones of the ministrant priest. Of other sounds 
there were none; the very spirit of peace seemed to 
brood over the glorious old place, the spiritual heart 
of England to-day as through so many long, long 
centuries. » 

There was peace in Grace Carling’s heart for the 
moment, renewed strength and courage for the long 
ordeal through which she and her beloved were 
painfully passing. She knew that at this hour, yon¬ 
der in the prison chapel, such a little distance away 
in reality, Roger himself would likewise be kneeling; 
and, as always at these times, they were very near 
to each other, in that spiritual communion which, to 
those who have experienced it, is a sublime and 
eternal fact, albeit a fact that even they can neither 
explain nor understand. 

When she went out presently with the words of 
the benediction still lingering in her ears, her pale 
face was serene and beautiful as that of an angel. 
220 


A PEACEMAKER 


221 


There were very few people about at this early 
hour—a mild, grey morning, with the great towers 
of Westminster looming through the haze like those 
of some dim, rich city of dreams. She walked 
swiftly, absorbed in thought, and as she reached 
Buckingham Gate came face to face with Austin 
Starr. 

“Why, what an early bird!” she said, smiling up 
at him. 

“I’ve been around to your place with some flowers 
—spring flowers, that mean hope! I guessed you 
would be at church, and wanted you to find them to 
greet you,” he explained. 

“That was dear of you, Austin; just like you. 
Have you breakfasted? No? Then come back to 
breakfast with me, do. You haven’t met my dear 
little Miss Culpepper yet.” 

“Thanks, I’d like to. Is that the old lady I 
saw right now? She looks a real peach.” 

“She’s priceless, and such a comfort to me. 
What a long time since I’ve seen you, Austin. I 
began to think you were forgetting me.” 

“I couldn’t do that,” he assured her earnestly. 
“But I’ve been very busy and very worried. I’ll 
tell you all about it directly, if I may.” 

He did look worried—she had noticed it at once 
—but there was no opportunity to say more at the 
moment, as they had reached the lift. 

Miss Culpepper came running out at the sound of 
Grace’s key in the lock. 

“Oh, my dear, a gentleman has been with a mass 
of such beautiful flowers and a great basket of 
fruit!” 


222 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“I know. Here he is, come back to breakfast. 
Miss Culpepper—Mr. Austin Starr. Now go in to 
the fire, Austin, and make yourself at home—you’ll 
find Dear Brutus on the hearthrug, I expect—while 
I take my hat off.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Culpepper,” said 
Austin. “Mrs. Carling has just been telling me 
what a great comfort you are to her, and I can well 
believe it. We all hated her to be living here all 
alone. Why, did you expect me or is someone else 
coming?” 

His quick eyes had noted that the table was laid 
for three persons, and already adorned with his own 
gifts. 

Miss Culpepper paused in the act of laying an¬ 
other place, and put her finger to her lip myste¬ 
riously, with a significant glance towards the door. 

“That’s Mr. Carling’s place,” she whispered. 
“It’s always laid ready for him at every meal. It 
pleases her, and I think it’s a beautiful idea really.” 

Austin nodded sympathetically, but felt troubled 
nevertheless. The thought occurred to him that 
“if things went wrong with Roger”—the only way 
in which at present, even to himself, he would ac¬ 
knowledge the probability of Carling being con¬ 
victed of the crime with which he was charged— 
Grace would surely die, or lose her reason. 

He felt somewhat reassured, as to her mental 
state anyhow, when she re-entered, looking so cheer¬ 
ful, so self-possessed, yet, alas! physically so fragile. 

She seemed perfectly normal, and yet he noticed 
how often she glanced at that vacant place with the 


A PEACEMAKER 


223 


chair drawn up before it, with such a curious ex¬ 
pression in her eyes, as if she indeed saw Roger 
sitting there in the flesh. It was absolutely uncanny. 

“Now what’s the trouble, Austin?” she asked, 
when the simple meal was at an end, and Miss Cul¬ 
pepper retreated with the breakfast things, leaving 
them together. She had drawn up a chair for him 
in front of the fire, and he knew that the vacant 
easy one was reserved for Roger, that “shadowy 
third.” 

“First it’s about Roger. I’ve been following up 
every trail I could think of, Grace, and every one 
of them has led just nowhere. I seem to get up 
against a blank wall every time. I’ve even been to 
Snell again, but he can’t or won’t help; and some¬ 
times I feel just about in despair!” 

She met his troubled gaze serenely. 

“I know you are leaving no stone unturned, 
Austin, and that the reason why you have not been 
to see me was because you had discovered nothing 
at present. But don’t let it trouble you. We must 
just go on keeping our hearts up, trusting and wait¬ 
ing. That’s sometimes the hardest thing in life, 
but it’s got to be done. And Roger will be cleared, 
how or when I do not know—yet: only that he will 
be saved, freed, his innocence established before 
the whole world!” 

“You’re wonderful, Grace! I wish to heaven I 
had such faith.” 

“I couldn’t live without it,” she said simply. 
“We all seem to be moving in a terrible fog, or, 
rather, to be so enveloped in it that we can’t move, 


224 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


we don’t know which way to turn! But the fog’s 
going to lift, the sun’s going to shine—in time! 
Have you seen much of the Cacciolas lately?” 

“Not for the last few days. I’ve been in and 
out a good deal, have got to know them pretty well, 
and the more I know them the better I like them— 
even young Melikoff—and the more I’m convinced 
that none of them had any more to do with that 
unhappy woman’s death than you or I had, and know 
no more about it. They seldom speak of it now— 
never when Boris is there. Lady Rawson seems to 
have had a sort of malign influence over him, which 
Maddelena resented bitterly; so did the maestro , 
for all he’s so gentle and tolerant, dear old man!” 

“Was that Miss Maddelena I saw you with last 
week?” asked Grace quietly. 

“Saw me with her—where?” 

“In St. James’s Park. I was sitting down. You 
passed quite close to me.” 

“Oh, yes! I did meet her one day, by pure 
chance. I never saw you. Curious too, she was 
very upset because Boris had had a letter from Sir 
Robert Rawson asking him to go and see him, and 
she didn’t want him to do so.” 

“Did he go?” asked Grace quickly. 

“I don’t know—I haven’t seen or heard from 
any of them since. But if he did, and anything 
transpired that would give us any light, Maddelena 
would have got it out of him and sent word to me 
—sure.” 

“I wonder why Sir Robert wanted to see him,” 
mused Grace, “and why Miss Maddelena didn’t 
want him to go?” 


A PEACEMAKER 


225 


He smiled. 

“She was afraid it would upset him. She’s very 
fond of Boris, and that’s why she was so jealous 
of Lady Rawson’s influence over him. As a matter 
of fact, she’s made up her mind to marry him, and I 
guess she’ll have her way! She’ll be a charming 
and a jolly good wife too, though it will be a case 
of ‘one who loves and one who graciously permits 
himself to be loved.’ They’re going to the States 
in the spring; Cacciola’s just fixed up a season in 
New York, where Boris will make his debut, and 
then they’ll go on tour. I bet Maddelena comes 
back as Mrs. Melikoff. She’s just about the most 
masterful young woman I’ve ever met, though a 
real good sort too.” 

He smiled again, indulgently and reminiscently, 
then sighed. 

“Cacciola wanted Winnie to go with them,” he 
continued slowly, staring fixedly at the fire; “but I 
gather she’s refused. It would have been a big 
chance for her; and besides, I’ll have to go over 
myself in the early spring. We could all have gone 
together, and she’d have met my mother and sisters, 
and- But now of course-” 

He turned to Grace with startling suddenness. 
“Grace, do you know that Winnie’s giving me the 
frozen mitten?” 

“Giving you the—what?” she echoed in sheer 
surprise. 

“That she’s turned me down. I haven’t even seen 
her since the day after she came back from Bristol.” 

“Nor have I, or only for a few minutes between 
whiles. She’s been away most of the time, with all 




226 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


these provincial engagements—only got back late 
last night; she rang me up.” 

“Did she say anything about me?” 

“No, only that she hadn’t seen you. I’m going 
to help down at Bermondsey. Aren’t you coming 
too?” 

“No—I don’t know. She hasn’t asked me. 
Fact is, she hasn’t answered my letters—she’s simply 
ignored me. I went around yesterday, and her 
maid said she wasn’t at home, though I’m plumb 
certain she was all the time. Then I rang up, and 
again the maid answered and said Winnie had gone 
to bed, and again I didn’t believe her. Why is she 
treating me like this? I can’t understand it. It’s 
worrying me no end. I’d have tried to find out 
from George, but he’s in Paris, as you know.” 

Grace nodded. 

“When did you see her last?” 

“I told you—the day after she returned from 
Bristol. It was at Cacciola’s, as it happened, and 
she came on here to you afterwards. I came with 
her as far as the lift, but she’d scarcely speak to 
me, though why I don’t know to this moment.” 

He looked so utterly forlorn and lugubrious that 
Grace had to smile, while she rapidly reviewed the 
situation and recalled her own vague suspicions. 

“You say you last saw her at Cacciola’s,” she 
mused. “What happened there?” 

“Nothing that I know of,” he asserted earnestly. 
“They were singing—or Boris was—when I got 
there, and I didn’t see Winnie at first; she was sit¬ 
ting in a dark corner.” 

“H’m! And Miss Maddelena was there?” 


A PEACEMAKER 


227 


“Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?” 

“Does Winnie know what you’ve just told me— 
about Mr. Melikoff and Maddelena?” 

“I don’t know—how should I? I’ve told you I 
haven’t seen her since. What’s that got to do with 
it, anyhow?” 

“Quite a lot, perhaps. Look here, Austin, I’ll be 
quite frank with you. When I saw you and Miss 
Maddelena—if it was she—last week, until I rec¬ 
ognized you I really thought you were—well, just a 
pair of sweethearts. You really appeared to be on 
such very confidential terms!” 

“Great Scott! Why I—she—it’s only her way! 
She’s impulsive, affectionate with people she likes, 
even when they’re only casual acquaintances like 
myself. The old man’s the same. See here, Grace, 
you don’t mean that you think Winnie’s jealous— 
jealous of Maddelena?” 

She laughed outright. She couldn’t help it. His 
consternation and his air of injured innocence were 
so comical. 

“I think it highly probable, my dear Austin.” 

“But it’s absurd!” he protested. “And it’s not 
a bit like Winnie.” 

“Isn’t it ? I’m afraid you don’t know much about 
women, Austin, even though you are a novelist, and 
psychologist, and all the rest of it.” 

He laughed too, then, somewhat ruefully: 

“I guess you’re about right. You generally are. 
Question is—what’s to be done?” 

“What did you send her for Christmas?” 

“Only some flowers and candies. I took them 
around myself last night and left them. But I’ve 


228 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


got this.” From his waistcoat pocket he extracted 
a dainty little morocco case, opened it and passed it 
to Grace, adding sheepishly, “You see, I wanted to 
give her this myself, if she’ll only see me.” 

“Oh, how beautiful!” Grace cried, as she ex¬ 
amined the ring—a superb sapphire surrounded by 
small diamonds. 

“Sapphire’s her favourite stone, and just the 
colour of her eyes, that wonderful deep blue,” he 
said. “I bought it weeks back, and have been 
carrying it around ever since, waiting the oppor¬ 
tunity to give it her.” 

“You are a dear, Austin, and you won’t have 
to wait much longer. Take my advice and go 
straight along to Chelsea now; you’ll catch her be¬ 
fore she starts out for church, and you can go with 
her. I’m coming along later. She’ll see you right 
enough this time.” 

He obeyed with alacrity, and when she had 
started him off she rang up Winnie. Martha an¬ 
swered, and asked her to “hold the line” while she 
fetched her mistress. A minute later came Win¬ 
nie’s fresh young voice. 

“That you, Grace, darling? How are you? 
You’re coming along directly?” 

“Yes, in an hour or so, I’ve just had an early 
visitor—Austin. The poor boy’s awfully upset.” 

“Really? Why?” Winnie’s tone had become 
frigid. 

“I think you know well enough, old thing. He’s 
confided to me that you seem to have given him the 
frozen mitten!” 


A PEACEMAKER 


229 


A pause. Then, icily : 

U I don’t understand the expression; it sounds ex¬ 
ceedingly vulgar!” 

“Win, darling, don’t fence, or pretend not to 
understand. It’s serious. I saw something was 
wrong; I’ve suspected it for some time, and had no 
end of trouble to get it out of him. But he says 
you’ve cut him systematically ever since you got 
back from Bristol, that you won’t see him or 
answer his letters, and he’s frightfully unhappy 
about it.” 

“Is he?” Another pause, and what sounded like 
an angry sob. “It’s all very well for him to talk, 
but if you’d seen him as I did, with that Maddelena 
Cacciola, when he didn’t know I was there—why I 
thought he was going to kiss her in front of every¬ 
body! And—and—oh, I can’t explain, but I—I 
saw and heard quite enough that day to—to realize 
that—I’d made a mistake—or he had.” 

“Winnie, you’re quite wrong! I know all about 
that, and there’s nothing in it. Surely you know the 
Cacciolas well enough by this time to know how un¬ 
conventional and—well—effusive they are. Austin 
admires the girl in a way, but he says she’s ‘the most 
masterful young woman he’s ever met,’ and—he 
loves you, Win; you know that in your heart. It 
—it’s not worthy of you, dear, to mistrust him so— 
not to give him a chance to explain. Darling, are 
you going to let the rift widen—perhaps to spoil 
both your lives for nothing—when there’s so much 
real sorrow in the world?” 

“I know. I’ve been pretty miserable too, and— 


230 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


I don’t know when I shall see him again,” said 
Winnie tremulously, and Grace smiled. 

“You’ll see him in about ten minutes, if he’s been 
able to find a taxi. He’s on his way to you now. 
Bye-bye till lunch time.” 

She put up the receiver. 



CHAPTER XXIII 
WHAT GIULIA SAW 

M R. IVERSON’S Christmas party for his 
poorest, and some of his “blackest,” sheep 
was in full swing when Grace arrived 
there that evening. 

Outside the Parish Hall a taxicab was standing, 
unattended, and she wondered for whom it might 
be waiting. She entered and stood for a time, un¬ 
observed, among the throng inside the door, for the 
place was crowded. 

On the tiny stage was Maddelena Cacciola, a be¬ 
witching figure in a gay contadina costume, singing 
a merry, rollicking song to her own guitar accom¬ 
paniment. 

A roar of applause followed, the rough audience 
stamping, shrilling, whistling their delight, till the 
girl reappeared, beaming at them, and waved her 
hands to enjoin silence. 

“Just a little dance now, my friends, and that 
must be the very last, please,” she announced; and 
forthwith Cacciola’s master touch brought forth 
real music, even from the old tinpotty piano. And 
Maddelena danced. 

Grace watched her, fascinated. How charming, 
how versatile, how utterly unaffected she was; and 
what a consummate artiste! No wonder Austin had 
231 


232 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


been attracted by her. Who could resist her? She 
was glad she had persuaded Winnie and him not to 
come on here with her to-night, but to get into 
“glad rags” and go to dine and dance at the Savoy. 
Her peacemaking effort had been entirely success¬ 
ful, and all was well with those two whom she loved. 
Winnie, the sapphire and diamond ring gleaming on 
her hand, had been radiant all through that tiring 
afternoon, had sung delightfully, had been her most 
lovable self; but it was just as well that she should 
not enter into rivalry with this irresistible Italian 
girl! 

The end of the dance evoked another tumult of 
appreciation, but Maddelena had vanished, not to 
return, and the vicar’s jolly voice boomed out. 

“We’d like to listen all night to the signorina, but 
we mustn’t be greedy and work her too hard. Now 
I vote we have some more tea and cakes—they’re 
all ready in the next room—and then we’ll clear for 
a dance.” 

In the movement that followed he caught sight of 
Grace, and made his way towards her. 

“My dear child, how long have you been 
here?” 

“Only a few minutes, just in time to help, padre” 

“Nothing of the sort; you look tired out. Come 
along; we’ll find a chair in a comparatively quiet 
corner.” 

“I’m not tired, really; I’m happier at work.” 

“I know that,” he said in his fatherly way. “But 
you mustn’t overdo it, you know. Where’s Miss 
Winston?” 

“I persuaded her not to come. She’s been sing- 


WHAT GIULIA SAW 


233 


ing all the afternoon at one place and another; 
we’ve had quite a big day of it, padre” 

Just so. And it’s all right here, as it happens. 
We’ve got the Cacciolas, as you see, and they’re a 
host in themselves—dear folk! Isn’t Miss Mad¬ 
delena wonderful? Why didn’t you bring your 
little Miss Culpepper along?” 

“She’s keeping house with Dear Brutus, and ex¬ 
pected an old sweetheart to tea.” 

“You don’t say so! Well, well. Now sit you 
down, child, and I’ll bring you some coffee.” 

“I’ve got some here; and please, Mr. Iverson, do 
introduce me to Mrs. Carling.” 

It was Maddelena herself who joined them, a 
dark wrap thrown over her picturesque dress, a big 
steaming cup of coffee in her hand. 

He complied, and Maddelena smiled down at her, 
and tendered the coffee. 

“It is for you; I saw how tired you were looking, 
and brought it on purpose. Now you must drink 
it,” she said in her charming, authoritative way. 
“And, oh, I am so glad to meet you at last, Mrs. 
Carling! I think of you so often.” She drew up 
another chair for herself, and the vicar slipped away 
to resume his duties as host. “You are so brave, 
so good—you set aside your so great sorrow and 
anxiety and think always of others; and padre has 
told me. It is wonderful,” Maddelena continued. 
“And, oh, I do so wish I could help you! I have so 
wanted to come and see you, but I did not like to, as 
we had never met.” 

“Well, now we have met I hope you will come 
and see me some day soon, Miss Cacciola,” said 


234 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Grace. “I have heard of you too, from my old 
friend Austin Starr.” 

“Ah, yes—that nice Mr. Starr! He is seeking 
still for fresh evidence that might help your hus¬ 
band. Has he any success yet?” Grace shook her 
head sadly. “Alas! it is a terrible mystery. We 
sought to help him, my uncle and I, yes, and even 
Boris, as perhaps he told you, but we could discover 
nothing—nothing at all!” 

“Yes, he did tell me, and indeed I am very grate¬ 
ful, Miss Cacciola. It is strange—terrible—that 
we can get no fresh light at all. But I am quite 
sure that the truth will be revealed. But for that 
faith I—I don’t think I could bear the suspense.” 

“Do you know, at the first, Mrs. Carling, I 
thought—as Boris also and doubtless very many 
others did—that your husband must have been 
guilty, until I saw him in the police court that day, 
and then I knew—though how I knew I cannot tell 
you—that he was innocent; and I would do anything 
in the world that I could to help to prove it. But 
what can we do?” 

Grace pressed her hand, keenly touched by the 
girl’s earnest, impulsive sympathy, but could find no 
words to reply. What, indeed could be said? 

“I have wondered often of late,” Maddelena re¬ 
sumed, her dark brows contracted in thought, 
“whether our old Giulia would be able to tell you 
anything.” 

“Your Giulia? Why, who is she?” asked Grace. 

“My uncle’s housekeeper—in fact our only serv¬ 
ant. She has been with him for many years and is 
devoted to us all. She is Italian, of course, a 


WHAT GIULIA SAW 


235 


peasant, and quite uneducated, but she has—what 
do you call it?—clairvoyance, the ‘second sight,’ 
sometimes, and can see, oh, the most extraordinary 
things—for some people !” 

“Really!” Grace exclaimed, almost in a whisper, 
her heart beginning to flutter, her eyes searching 
the girl’s vivid, thoughtful face. 

“Yes. She can see nothing for herself—it is of¬ 
ten so—only for others, and she tells me things 
that do come true. Many times of late, as I begged 
her to, she has tried to see what happened that day, 
but she has failed so far. She says she knew, when 
Paula Rawson left, that there was tragedy round 
her; she saw her depart as in a red cloud, and was 
half minded to follow her at the time. If only she 
had done so! But she disliked and feared her al¬ 
ways. And she has never been able to see anything 
clearly about it—for me. She says it is because 
Paula really does not come into my life at all, ex¬ 
cept indirectly. It might be different with Boris, 
though she has never tried to ‘see’ for him. He 
does not know of her powers, and I do not want him 
to let her try with him—it might upset, unbalance 
him again, restore the terrible influence Paula had 
over him. You understand that, don’t you? Or 
you would if you knew him, and how terribly he 
has suffered! But I do believe she might be able to 
see something for you.” 

“I wonder,” Grace murmured perplexedly. “I 
don’t know anything about such things, Miss Cac- 
ciola; of course I have heard of clairvoyants.” 

“Yes, fortune tellers and charlatans most of 
them; but our Giulia is not like that. It is a real 


236 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


gift with her. Oh, if you would come to see her! 
Why not come now? She is all alone, and it will be 
quite quiet. Or are you too tired?” 

“Tired? Oh, no, indeed,” Grace declared ea¬ 
gerly. “But I should be taking you away from 
here.” 

“I’m quite ready to go. They’ll have to do with¬ 
out me for the rest of the evening,” said Maddelena 
rising. “We’ve a cab waiting outside, Mrs. Car¬ 
ling, so I will just find the chauffeur and tell my uncle 
we are going. Will you stay here till I return?” 

She flitted away and disappeared among the 
noisy, merry crowd that was beginning to drift back 
from the refreshment-room, to return in a min¬ 
ute or two accompanied by the taxi-driver. 

“Here we are. I have told the padre that I am 
going to start you off home, as I will after you have 
seen Giulia. Come along.” 

They drove along the Mall, almost deserted on 
this Christmas night, a peaceful and beautiful scene 
with the river at full tide under the moonlight. 
The last time Grace had driven along here was on 
her way from church on that wedding day that 
seemed a lifetime ago. Now she felt as if she were 
bound on some strange, vague adventure in the 
world of dreams! 

The cab turned up a narrow street on the left, 
and paused at the high road, held up by a couple of 
passing trams—paused just outside that fatal post 
office. The house was dark, the shop windows 
plastered with big posters announcing that the 
premises had been sold by private treaty. 

“The horrible place is to be pulled down,” said 


WHAT GIULIA SAW 


237 


Maddelena. “That is well. Mrs. Cave has got 
another shop about a quarter of a mile away, nearer 
the station. She moved there, post office and all, a 
few days ago. She is very glad. No wonder.” 

As they crossed the road and drove down the 
quiet square, Grace, staring out of the window, could 
almost imagine that she saw the ghost-like figure of 
Paula Rawson gliding along in the shadow—glid¬ 
ing to her doom—and shivered involuntarily. 

“You are cold!” exclaimed Maddelena solici¬ 
tously. 

“No. I was only—remembering,” she answered, 
and Maddelena pressed her arm with an impulsive 
gesture of sympathy. 

“You can wait,” she told the chauffeur. “Go 
down and tell Mr. Withers you are to sit by his fire 
till I call you. Take my arm, Mrs. Carling. We 
will go slowly up these many stairs. They are try¬ 
ing to a stranger.” 

Grace, indeed, was breathless when they reached 
the top, and Maddelena led her straight into the 
big drawing-room, where the cosy gas fire was aglow 
as usual—the Cacciolas loved warmth—switched on 
the lights, and pushed her guest into the easiest 
chair. 

“Now you must have a glass of my uncle’s famous 
wine and a biscuit. Yes, yes, I insist, it is here— 
everybody has to do as I say; Mr. Starr calls me 
‘she who must be obeyed.’ Has he told you that? 
He is very funny sometimes, that Mr. Starr, but he 
is right there. So, drink it up while I go and pre¬ 
pare Giulia.” 

She found the old woman sitting in her old arm- 


238 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


chair in the spotless kitchen—placidly enjoying her 
Christmas evening playing “patience,” in company 
with a flask of Chianti and a dish of salted almonds 
—bestowed a hearty kiss upon her, and explained 
why she had returned so early. 

“But who is it?” protested Giulia. “I do not 
know that I shall be able to see for her.” 

“Thou wilt try, dear good Giulia,” coaxed Mad- 
delena. “It will be kind indeed, for she is in deep 
distress over the fate of one whom she loves most 
dearly. Yes, she is a stranger. I will not even tell 
thee her name; it is not necessary: at least thou hast 
often said so. Let the light come if it will.” 

“Well, well, thou wilt have thy way as usual, 
carissima,” said Giulia resignedly, pushing aside her 
cards. “But she must come to me here.” 

“I will bring her on the instant,” said Maddelena, 
and returned to Grace. 

“She is ready. Do you mind coming into the 
kitchen? She is always at her best in her own 
domain. Do you understand Italian? No? Then 
I must be with you to translate, for when she ‘sees’ 
she always speaks in her own tongue. I will write 
it down—that will be best. Ah, you have drunk 
the wine—that is good. You look just a little bit 
less like a ghost now, dear lady. This way.” 

Giulia rose as they entered the kitchen, dropped 
a quaint little curtsey, and fixed her dark eyes 
earnestly on the visitor. 

“Yes, I zink it vill be that I vill see. Zere is light 
all around you—ze great protecting light! Vill you 
sit here at my feet; take off your gloves and hold 
my hands—so! Vait now; do not speak!” 


WHAT GIULIA SAW 


239 


She pulled out a hassock, on which Grace obe¬ 
diently seated herself. Giulia took her hands, 
holding them lightly and moving her own wrinkled 
brown ones over them with a curious massage-like 
movement for a minute or more, while she con¬ 
tinued to gaze searchingly at her. Maddelena, 
pencil and notebook in hand, leaned on the back of 
Giulia’s chair. 

In the silence the slow tick of the clock sounded 
unnaturally loud; in Grace’s ears her own heart¬ 
beats sounded even louder. 

Then Giulia ceased moving her hands and grasped 
those of her visitor closely and firmly, in a grip that 
occasionally, during the minutes that followed, be¬ 
came almost painful. Grace saw the light fade from 
the old woman’s eyes, leaving them fixed and glassy, 
like those of a corpse, till the lids drooped over them 
and she seemed to sleep, breathing deeply and 
heavily. Soon she began to speak, in Italian, slowly 
and with difficulty at first, then more fluently. 

Grace, watching and listening with strained at¬ 
tention, could only understand a word here and 
there, but Maddelena later gave her the written 
translation. 

“There is light all around you—a beautiful light; 
it is the great protection; but beyond there is gloom 
and within it I see a man; he is your beloved. I 
think he is young and handsome, but I cannot see 
him clearly. I could not see him at all but for the 
light around you that penetrates even to him. You 
stretch hands to each other, striving to meet—you 
in the light, he in the darkness—and sometimes the 
hands touch, just for a moment. 


240 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“Ah, the darkness passes a little. I see a large 
building; many people are there : it is a Court of Jus¬ 
tice. The beloved is apart from you, from all, in 
a place by himself; there is but one beside him—I 
think he is an officer of police. The light streams 
from you to him, it gives him strength and courage. 

“Alas! the darkness gathers; it shrouds you both 
now—black, black! The very Shadow of Doom— 
the Shadow of Death!” 

Maddelena, still writing rapidly, almost mechani¬ 
cally, drew her breath with a little gasp of dismay, 
and Grace glanced at her with agonized eyes. 

“What is she saying?” she whispered. 

“S-sh—wait, it is not the end,” Maddelena whis¬ 
pered back hurriedly. It seemed a long time, 
though probably it was not more than a minute, be¬ 
fore Giulia spoke again. 

“The light comes once more, but it is a different 
light, and the air is full of the odour of flowers. 
Now I can see. It is a large, a beautiful room— 
larger than the maestro’s music-room. The hang¬ 
ings are green and the chairs of gold. There are 
many flowers. A clock strikes—it is the ninth hour. 
Hush, there are footsteps and voices, low voices; 
men come in softly; I do not know them; they look 
like great lords. Now two more enter—one is 
young and one older; I have seen them before, but 
I know not where. You are not there, nor your 
beloved. Someone is speaking; I cannot see him, 
there is a mist rising—a red mist; it hides all. . . . 

“But the end is not yet. Once more the light 
comes. It is another room now—a smaller one. 
A woman kneels beside a bed. She is very still, and 


WHAT GIULIA SAW 


241 


I cannot see her face, but I think—nay, I am sure— 
it is thou thyself, signora; and the light is all radiant 
above thee—the light of the ‘great protection.’ 
There is a little table close by with a telephone. 
Listen, it is the bell ringing. The woman rises— 
yes, she is thou. It is news, good news. The tears 
come, but, ah, they are tears of joy. 

“Here is thy beloved—at last I see him clearly. 
He is at thy side, he is free. The shadow has 
passed away. See, thou art in his arms, and the 
light—the glorious light is upon both!” 

Silence once more. Slowly her grasp relaxed— 
for days afterwards Grace’s hands showed blue 
marks from the grip of those strong brown fingers 
—she drew a long sigh, shivered, and then slowly 
opened her eyes and gazed dreamily at the girl. 

“Vat is it? Vat have I see?” she muttered in her 
broken English. 

“Thou hast seen much that was very strange and 
very comforting; thou hast done well, dear Giulia,” 
said Maddelena, leaning forward and bestowing a 
hug and kiss on her from behind. “Rest now, thou 
art exhausted. So, thou shalt sleep for a while.” 

Giulia leant back and closed her eyes again, and 
Maddelena turned to Grace, who had risen with 
difficulty. 

“Come, Mrs. Carling, she will be all right in a 
few minutes. You are faint and trembling. No 
wonder! It was a marvellous seance.” 

“What did she see? What did she say?” fal¬ 
tered Grace, glad of the support of Maddelena’s 
strong young arm as the girl led her along the 
passage. 


242 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“I will tell you directly. I have it all down, or 
nearly all, I think, but in Italian—there was no 
time to translate. I will do that and send it to 
you to-morrow.” 

“It sounded so tragic, so terrible,” said Grace 
piteously. “I couldn’t understand, of course; but 
surely she said something about death—the shadow 
of death—when you seemed so upset!” 

“Yes. I was afraid for a moment, but the 
shadow passed in the end. I am sure, quite sure, 
she has seen rightly, and that Mr. Carling will be 
saved, though how I don’t know and she doesn’t, 
but listen.” 

Rapidly she turned over her scrawled notes, and 
read the last part only, from the description of the 
room with the flowers and the green hangings. 
She thought it kindest to suppress the earlier ep¬ 
isodes, and as a matter of fact did not divulge them 
fully to Grace until weeks later. 

“Do you recognize the rooms?” 

“Not the large one,” said Grace perplexedly. 
“I cannot place it at all. But the other must be 
our—my—bedroom: the telephone is there, as she 
says. And you say she saw Roger there!” 

“Yes, that’s the very last thing; you are to think 
of that, dear Mrs. Carling, whatever may happen. 
No matter how dark things may be, the light will 
come—the ‘great protection’ will be over you both 
all the time. So you will never lose courage even 
for a moment, will you? Oh, I am so glad you 
came!” 

“You dear child!” cried Grace, and kissed her. 


WHAT GIULIA SAW 


243 


And now I am going to see you home—you are 
tired to death. Well, only to the station then, if 
you will have it so. And I may come and see you 
soon? We will be friends, real friends, won’t we?” 

When she arrived home, still musing over this 
strange, almost incredible, episode, Grace found 
Miss Culpepper—also playing “patience”—with a 
cheerful fire, a dainty little supper, and a loving 
welcome. 

“What a long day you’ve had, my dear. You 
must be worn out,” she said, fluttering round and 
helping her remove her wrap. 

“Yes, it has been long, but very interesting. 
And how have you got on? Did Mr. Thomson 
come to tea?” 

“Y-e-s—oh, yes, though he didn’t stay very 
long. Sir Robert is not so well, and he was anxious 
to return. He brought me this—a beautiful little 
bit of bigotry, isn’t it?” 

“This” was an antique brooch, set with pearls, 
a really exquisite piece of workmanship. 

“It’s lovely, and suits you perfectly in that lace 
fichu.” 

“Yes. James always had excellent taste, and I 
really was very pleased, and very surprised. But 
do you know, dear Mrs. Carling, I see a great dif¬ 
ference in him—naturally perhaps after all these 
years; but—oh, I don’t know what it is, something 
I cannot fathom! And Dear Brutus did behave so 
badly, spat and swore —swore at Mr. Thomson, till 
I actually had to take him out to the kitchen and 
shut him up there. It was quite upsetting!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE SHADOW OF DOOM 

T HE trial of Roger Carling for the murder 
of Lady Rawson was drawing to an end. 
No case heard in the Central Criminal 
Court had ever created greater public interest, by 
reason of the sensational and unique circumstances 
of the crime, and the social status of the victim and 
of several of the persons involved. 

Also, many of the callous and curious spectators, 
most of them fashionably dressed women, who 
waited for hours in the bitter cold of those grey 
winter mornings to gain admission to the court, 
fully expected a series of scandalous revelations; 
for rumours had been rife of some passionate in¬ 
trigue between the murdered woman and Roger 
Carling, or Boris Melikoff, or both men; and cir¬ 
cumstantial lies, invented by salacious minds, were 
broadcasted by malicious tongues from Mayfair and 
Belgravia to the far suburbs. 

Those prurient anticipations were never satisfied. 
No fresh evidence was forthcoming; but as the case 
developed so the tension increased, the interest be¬ 
came cumulatively more poignant, more painful, 
concentrated on the prisoner, pale and worn but 
perfectly self-possessed, and his girl-wife, whose 
eyes never left his face, and who seemed utterly 
244 


THE SHADOW OF DOOM 


245 


oblivious of every one and everything else in the 
world except during the brief interval when, in the 
witness-box, she gave evidence on the important ep¬ 
isode of the sudden change of their honeymoon 
plans. 

The opening indictment by counsel for the Crown 
seemed flawless. Inexorably, with consummate skill, 
and in absolutely passionless tones, he reconstructed 
and related the story of the crime, from the dis¬ 
covery of the theft of the secret papers to the arrest 
of the prisoner on the fourth day of his honeymoon. 
Calmly, relentlessly he wove the threads of cir¬ 
cumstantial evidence and presented it as a complete 
web. 

In imagination, those who listened saw Roger 
Carling enter on his hasty quest—“Bear in mind 
the importance that he attached, and rightly at¬ 
tached, to those missing papers—an importance so 
tremendous that his own wedding, the bride who 
was awaiting him at the very altar, became sec¬ 
ondary considerations!”—followed him as in the 
increasing gloom he dogged the footsteps of his 
victim, watched him pass swiftly through the shop, 
unperceived by the other persons there, a cir¬ 
cumstance that sounded almost incredible until its 
possibility was demonstrated by the model and plans 
of the place, which were duly passed to the jury for 
examination. Then the fatal stab in that obscure 
corner, a deed premeditated, if only for a brief 
minute before hand, as the weapon (counsel held 
up that little tortoiseshell knife) must have been 
ready in his hand. It was the work of a moment; 
it was done not in the heat of passion, but coolly, de- 


246 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


liberately; and as coolly and deliberately, having 
achieved his immediate purpose and regained pos¬ 
session of the papers, he thereupon not only effected 
his own escape for the time being, but, with a re¬ 
source amazing in its ingenuity, instantly got rid of 
his incriminating booty, the recovered papers, in the 
one way that might, and as a matter of fact did, 
effect their safe return to Sir Robert Rawson, by 
posting them in the letter-box close at hand! 

“Is it probable—nay, is it possible or even con¬ 
ceivable—that any other person than the prisoner, 
the one man in England who at that moment knew 
the contents and the inestimable importance of those 
documents, would have acted in such a manner? 

“The reaction came, naturally and inevitably. 
The prisoner’s demeanour, the agitation he ex¬ 
hibited when eventually he arrived at the church 
where his bride awaited him, were precisely what 
might be expected in a man who had come straight 
from the perpetration of an appalling crime, as they 
were far in excess of the physical and mental dis¬ 
tress that any ordinary individual would suffer 
through the accidental inconvenience and delay ex¬ 
perienced in consequence of the fog. 

“Finally, there was a sudden change of plans and 
of destination effected after the prisoner and his 
bride had actually started on their honeymoon. 
Why did he not take his bride to the hotel where 
rooms had already been booked for them? Be¬ 
cause he had begun to realize what the consequence 
of his crime would be—feared that he would be ar¬ 
rested that very night, sought to gain time, a few 
hours, a few days.” 


THE SHADOW OF DOOM 


247 


Cummings-Browne sprang up. 

“I protest! There is a complete explanation of 
the change of plans which will be given in evidence.” 

“My learned friend says the change of plans will 
be completely explained in the course of evidence. 
It will be for you, gentlemen of the jury, to decide 
on its significance when you have heard the explana¬ 
tion, as it will be your duty to weigh the whole of 
the evidence.” 

Hour after hour through that day and the next 
the succession of witnesses gave their evidence, 
and were subjected to searching cross-examination 
and re-examination by the respective counsel. 
Those in court, and they were many, who were 
familiar with the methods of the famous counsel for 
the defence discerned from the first that Cummings- 
Browne was on his mettle, fighting for his client’s 
life against most desperate odds; for the great mass 
of evidence provided corroboration on nearly every 
point of the theory formulated by the prosecution; 
and in refutation of that theory there was prac¬ 
tically nothing except Roger’s own simple, straight¬ 
forward statement of his movements, and Grace’s 
pathetic testimony regarding their change of plan, 
for which she insisted that she alone was responsible. 

One point which Cummings-Browne elicited was, 
that while it was practically certain that the mur¬ 
derer wore gloves—a fact indicated by the smears 
on the bag—Sadler, the taxi-driver, swore positively 
that Roger Carling was not wearing gloves when 
he left the taxi. 

“I noticed how cold his hands looked when he 
paid me, and wondered that a well-dressed young 


248 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


gentleman didn’t have his gloves on on such a raw 
day.” 

Neither old Giulia nor any of the witnesses who 
were questioned concerning the time he arrived at 
the church, and his appearance when he did arrive, 
could give any definite information on this matter, 
while he himself admitted that he had gloves in his 
pocket, and very probably put them on while he 
was on his way to the church, though he had no 
recollection of doing so; but asserted that they were 
the same gloves—a pair of grey antelope—that he 
had worn on his journey back to Town when he was 
under arrest, and that were now among the “ex¬ 
hibits” in court. Those gloves were soiled, but with 
ordinary wear, and a microscopic examination 
proved that there were no incriminating stains on 
them, and that they had never undergone any proc¬ 
ess of cleaning. 

That circumstance—so small in itself, but of such 
tremendous importance when a man’s life depended 
on it—was duly emphasized by Cummings-Browne 
in the course of his three hours’ speech for the de¬ 
fence—a speech afterwards acknowledged to be the 
most brilliant, the most impassioned, the most mov¬ 
ing that even he had ever delivered; one that held 
his auditors enthralled. 

There was dead silence for a few seconds after 
he sat down, then a wave of emotion swept over the 
crowded court, and a spontaneous murmur of ap¬ 
plause, instantly and sternly suppressed by the 
ushers. 

Austin Starr, sitting close to Grace, drew a deep 
breath of relief and flashed a smile at Roger. He 


THE SHADOW OF DOOM 


249 


believed, as many others did at that moment, that 
Cummings-Browne had triumphed once more—that 
Roger was saved. 

Then, grim and relentless as Fate, counsel for the 
Crown rose to reply. Bit by bit, calmly, remorse¬ 
lessly he demolished that eloquent defence, exposed 
the slight foundation on which it was based com¬ 
pared with the mass of evidence that supported the 
case for the prosecution; dwelt on the atrocious na¬ 
ture of the crime—“a crime far worse than ordinary 
homicide, for which there was often the excuse that 
it was committed in the heat of passion; but this 
was assassination—the cool, deliberate assassina¬ 
tion of a helpless, defenceless woman!” 

After that cold, calm, implacable denunciation 
came the judge’s summing-up—grave, reasoned, 
meticulously impartial. Then the jury retired. 

One hour, two hours dragged by, each seeming 
long as a lifetime. Would they never return? At 
last at the little movement that heralded the final 
scene, counsel and solicitors, Grace Carling and her 
friends came in and resumed their places, the judge 
took his seat once more, the prisoner reappeared in 
the dock. Roger stood with shoulders squared, 
head erect, lips firmly set, pale indeed, but ap¬ 
parently as self-possessed as was the judge himself. 
The jury filed in. 

“Guilty!” 

With that one low-voiced word the Shadow of 
Doom seemed to descend; and above the subdued 
sound of sobbing the judge’s deep, solemn voice was 
heard asking the prisoner if he had anything to say 
before sentence was passed on him. 


250 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Roger looked at him full and fearlessly, and an¬ 
swered in tones that rang through the court: 

“Only this, my lord, that I am absolutely innocent 
—innocent in thought as well as in deed—of this ap¬ 
palling crime!” 

As he spoke Grace rose in her place, slowly, 
silently, till she stood at her full height, her hands 
clasped on her breast. There was a strange, 
ecstatic expression on her fair face, subtle and in¬ 
scrutable as the smile of Mona Lisa, and her eyes 
were fixed on Roger’s, as, from the moment he 
ceased speaking, his were fixed on hers. 

So those two lovers looked at each other while 
the dread sentence was pronounced that would part 
them for ever in this world. They did not even 
seem to hear the words of doom. 

Many women, and some men, were sobbing hys¬ 
terically, none were unmoved; but still Grace stood 
like a statue, scarcely seeming to breathe, gazing no 
longer at Roger—for he, with the two warders in 
attendance, had disappeared—but at the place where 
he had been. 

Austin Starr slipped his arm round her on the 
one side, Winnie Winston, tearful and trembling, 
on the other. 

“We must get her away,” sobbed Winnie. 
“Come, darling!” 

She yielded to their touch, walking quite steadily, 
but as unconscious of her surroundings as a som¬ 
nambulist. 

Only when they reached the anteroom and a little 
crowd of friends and counsel clustered round her, 


THE SHADOW OF DOOM 


251 


she turned her head and looked at Austin, that faint 
unearthly smile still on her lips, and said, quite 
distinctly: 

“It is not the end. There is still the light— the 
great protection!” 

With that she swayed forward, and Austin hem 
and lowered her gently to the floor. 

“Oh, she’s dead!” cried Winnie, kneeling dis¬ 
tractedly beside her. “Grace—Grace, darling!” 

“She’s only fainted, thank God! It’s better for 
her,” said Austin huskily. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE LAST HOPE 

I N the room that had once been Paula Rawson’s 
boudoir Sir Robert Rawson lay on his wheeled 
couch, drawn up near a blazing fire. Of late 
he had extended his daily visits to this room of 
poignant memories, spending many hours there, 
with Thomson or Perkins in attendance on him— 
usually Perkins, for since the evening of Boris 
Melikoff’s visit, when Sir Robert had detected and 
rebuked that “error of judgment” in his trusted old 
servant, he had not resumed the confidential rela¬ 
tions that had existed between them for so many 
years. He never again referred, in words, to the 
incident, but an impalpable barrier had risen be¬ 
tween master and man that in all probability would 
never be surmounted. 

Over the mantelpiece hung the famous half- 
length portrait of Paula which, entitled “The Jade 
Necklace,” had been the picture of its year at the 
Academy, a masterpiece that showed her in all her 
imperious beauty, dressed in a robe of filmy black 
over which fell a superb chain of jade beads, the 
one startling note of vivid colour in the whole 
picture. 

For hours Sir Robert would lie and gaze at the 
portrait that seemed to gaze back at him with 
252 


THE LAST HOPE 


253 


proud, tragic, inscrutable dark eyes. He was gaz¬ 
ing at it now, and might or might not have been 
listening as Perkins conscientiously read aloud col¬ 
umn after column from “The Times.” Perkins 
read remarkably well—Sir Robert occasionally com¬ 
plimented him—but he often wondered whether his 
master really did listen! 

He paused when the butler entered with a visiting 
card, on which a brief message was written in pencil 
below the name: “Entreating five minutes’ inter¬ 
view on a most urgent and private matter.” 

“Mr. Austin Starr,” Sir Robert muttered, frown¬ 
ing meditatively over the card. 

“There’s a lady too, Sir Robert,” said Jenkins. 
“I asked her name, but the gentleman said she 
would only give it to you.” 

For a full minute Sir Robert pondered, holding 
the card in his thin fingers, before he answered 
slowly: “Very well. Bring them up, Jenkins. 
. . . You can wait in the next room, Perkins.” 

In the interval he looked up again at the portrait, 
with a strange expression in his haggard eyes, as if 
he were mutely questioning it; but his stern old face 
was impassive as a mask as he turned it towards his 
visitors. 

“I remember you, Mr. Starr; but who is this 
lady?” 

Grace, for it was she, came forward and raised 
her veil. 

“I am Roger Carling’s wife, Sir Robert.” 

He looked at her intently. He had seen her 
once or twice, when she had been a guest at his 
wife’s receptions, and he never forgot a face he had 


254 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


once seen, but he could scarcely recognize in this 
pale, worn woman with appealing, pathetic, grey 
eyes, the radiant young girl of such a few months 
ago. 

“I thought it might be you,” he said slowly. “I 
am very sorry for you, Mrs. Carling—and sorry 
that you have come here to-day. I fear you will 
only add to your own distress—and to mine. Why 
have you come?” 

“To plead with you for my husband’s life,” she 
cried. “As our very last hope, Sir Robert! You 
know—you must know—that the appeal has failed, 
the petition to the Home Secretary has failed, and 
to-morrow—to-morrow-’ ’ 

She faltered and Sir Robert said grimly: 

“To-morrow Robert Carling will pay the just 
penalty for his crime.” 

Austin clenched his hands in indignation, but 
dared not speak, dared do nothing to interrupt this 
terrible old man, who, if he could be prevailed upon 
to intervene, might yet save Roger Carling from 
the scaffold. If Grace could not move him, as¬ 
suredly no one else could! 

“No, no, Sir Robert—he is innocent; you, of all 
people, should have known that from the first.” 

“I? I would give everything I possess in this 
world to be able to believe that, but I cannot. He 
has been tried and found guilty. There is no 
shadow of doubt that he is guilty, and that knowl¬ 
edge is the bitterest thing in the world to me, for 
I loved him, I trusted him as a son, and he murdered 
my dear wife!” 



THE LAST HOPE 


255 


She fell on her knees beside his couch, stretching 
out piteous hands to him. 

“Sir Robert, I implore you to hear me! Roger 
never raised his hand against Lady Rawson. God 
knows who did, but it was not he! The truth will 
be discovered some day, I don’t know how or when, 
but it will; and if it comes too late—and there are 
such a few hours, such a few short hours in which 
he may still be saved—his death will be at your 
door, on your conscience! For you can save him 
now if you will! Your influence is so great, if you 
will but say one word on his behalf the Home Sec¬ 
retary—the King himself—will listen to you, will 
respond to you as to no other man in the world. 
They will grant a reprieve, and then, whenever the 
truth does come out, his innocence will be estab¬ 
lished—he will be set free. Sir Robert, I implore 
you.” 

Again he looked at the portrait, and her agonized 
eyes followed the direction of his. 

For a few seconds there was a tense silence. The 
deathly fragrance of the masses of flowers in the 
room seemed to increase till it was overpowering, 
suffocating. Then Grace spoke softly, brokenly, 
not to the stern old man, but to the woman in the 
picture. 

“Oh, if only you could speak; if you could but tell 
us the whole truth! Do you know—I wonder, I 
think you may do—-how I wept and prayed for you 
when I learned of your terrible fate, that over¬ 
shadowed those sacred hours of our happiness; how 
my beloved grieved for you and your stricken hus- 


256 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


band, whom he so loved and honoured? If you do 
know, then, as a woman, you will know what we 
suffer, in our great love and all our sorrow, with 
the shadow of doom upon us—you will strive to 
touch your husband’s heart, to soften it towards 
us!” 

“Enough!” Sir Robert’s voice broke in harshly. 
“It is useless for you to invoke the dead, useless to 
ask me to intercede for your husband. I have no 
power to save him, and if I had I would not exert 
it; the law must take its course!” 

Austin stepped forward impetuously. 

“Sir Robert,” he began indignantly, but Grace 
checked him with a gesture. 

In some uncanny way she seemed suddenly to re¬ 
gain her composure, and rose to her feet, standing 
erect just as she had done in court when the judge 
pronounced Roger’s doom. Slowly her glance 
travelled from the portrait round the beautiful 
room, as if she was noting each detail, and the two 
men watched her in silence. 

“The room with green hangings and many 
flowers,” she said softly; “the room where the truth 
will be made known—at the ninth hour.” 

“Come away, Grace,” said Austin huskily, mov¬ 
ing to her side and taking her arm. He feared 
her mind had given way at last under the long 
strain. 

She looked at him with that faint, inscrutable 
Mona Lisa smile on her white face. 

“It is all right, Austin, good friend. I am not 
mad. Yes, we will go—to Roger. It was good of 
you to see me, Sir Robert. I will forget what you 


THE LAST HOPE 


257 


have said; you will know better soon—at the ninth 
hour. Good-bye. Come, Austin.” 

She moved towards the door, scarcely seeming to 
need Austin’s support, and when it closed behind 
them Sir Robert covered his eyes with his hand and 
sank back on his pillows. 

As they went down the wide staircase Thomson 
silently appeared on the landing, and, after a mo¬ 
ment’s hesitation, followed them. Jenkins met 
them in the hall, ceremoniously ushered them out, 
and opened the door of the waiting taxi. Austin 
helped Grace into the cab and was about to follow 
her when Thomson crossed the pavement. 

“Half a minute, Mr. Jenkins. Can I have a 
word with you, Mr. Starr?” 

Jenkins retreated, imagining that Thomson had 
come with a message from his master, and Austin 
turned. 

“Well, what is it?” 

“This way, if you don’t mind, sir,” said Thomson, 
drawing him a little aside. “Am I right in thinking 
that you and Mrs. Carling have been to ask my mas¬ 
ter to use hh Influence on behalf of Mr. Carling?” 

“You are, and he has refused,” said Austin 
curtly. 

“I feared as much, sir. And there’s no hope that 
Mr. Lorimer, the Home Secretary, or the King 
himself, even now-” 

“None that I can see.” 

“I am very distressed, sir—very distressed in¬ 
deed, but there’s still time—while there’s life 
there’s hope! Could you manage to come round 
here again to-night, sir—say at nine o’clock?” 



258 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“Here! What for?” asked Austin bluntly. 

“I can’t explain, sir. I don’t quite know yet, but 
if you would come—ask for Sir Robert—I think 
there might be someone here—there might be a 
chance. Better not say anything to the poor lady, 
but perhaps you would give her my best respects, 
and try to cheer her up generally. Tell her not to 
despair.” 

“I’ll come. And you’re a good chap, Thomson,” 
Austin said earnestly, though his own hopes were 
dead. He would have shaken hands with the little 
man, but Thomson evaded the proffered grasp and 
slipped back into the house. 

Grace asked no question, but sat upright in her 
corner, with that strange, unnatural composure still 
possessing her. 

They were on their way to the prison for their 
last interview with Roger, whose execution was 
fixed for eight o’clock on the following morning, and 
Austin, who had fought valiantly in the American 
Army in that last year of the Great War, had there 
seen death in many dreadful forms—the death of 
comrades whom he loved—dreaded this interview 
as he had never dreaded anything in his life before. 
Possibly for the first time in his life he felt an 
arrant coward, and when the moment came he was 
speechless. He just wrung Roger’s hands, bent and 
kissed them, and hastily retreated, quite unconscious 
of the fact that the tears were rolling down his face. 

It was quite otherwise with Grace. She spoke 
gently, with a gracious smile to the watchful 
warders, whose guard over the prisoner must now 
be ceaseless till the end, and then clung to Roger, 


THE LAST HOPE 


259 


raising her lips to his, her great, grey eyes shining, 
not with tears. 

“It’s not good-bye, darling,” she said softly. 
“It’s only till to-morrow—such a little time—per¬ 
haps even sooner—to-night, at the ninth hour—and 
we shall be at home together—at last. The light 
is coming—the great protection is over us!” 

He thought, as Austin did, that for the time be¬ 
ing at least she had become insane. It was better 
so, for her sake; but, oh, it was hard! He had to 
summon all his fortitude. The iron will that had 
sustained him through all these terrible weeks must 
sustain him to the last. 

“Good-bye, my own dear love. God guard you 
and bring you to me in His own good time,” were 
his last words. 

She flashed a radiant smile at him. 

“Till to-morrow!” she said, and with that she 
left him, passing like a wraith, quite oblivious of the 
deep interest and sympathy of the officials, and of 
the prison chaplain who accompanied her and Aus¬ 
tin to the outer gates, but with tactful delicacy re¬ 
frained from speaking to her. He too thought, 
“it was better so.” 

Winnie and little Miss Culpepper, pale-faced and 
red-eyed, were waiting anxiously for her return. 
She smiled on them too, as they took off her outdoor 
wraps and lovingly tended her. 

“Yes, I will have some tea—just a cup. And 
I’m so tired I’m going to lie down for an hour or 
two. You see it won’t do for me to be a wreck 
when Roger comes home. That s nice. Thank 
you, darlings. You ave good to me. If I don t 


260 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


wake before nine will you wake me then?” 

Like a child she submitted to be wrapped in a 
rest-gown and tucked up under the eiderdown on 
her bed. When Winnie stole in to look at her 
presently she was fast asleep. 

“What does she mean about Roger coming home, 
and that we are to wake her at nine o’clock?” 
Winnie asked Austin when she rejoined the others. 

“I don’t know. She’s been like that, poor girl, 
ever since we were with Sir Robert. He was 
brutal to her—brutal! I wish we had not gone, 
but you know how she insisted on doing so. She 
just stood and looked around the room, and I guess 
something snapped in her poor brain. She said 
something then about ‘the ninth hour,’ and it’s a 
queer coincidence, but directly after, old man Thom¬ 
son, Sir Robert’s valet, followed us and asked me to 
go back there at nine o’clock—though why, he 
wouldn’t say, and I can’t surmise. But I’m going!” 

“Did you tell her about that?” 

“No. He asked me not to. And it didn’t seem 
any use to talk to her, poor girl; she was just in¬ 
sensible, as you saw her now, like an animated 
corpse.” 

“How is Roger?” 

“Well, I can’t quite say,” Austin acknowledged. 
“I think he was quite calm, but—well, as a matter 
of fact, I wasn’t! The padre —Mr. Iverson—has 
permission to stay the night with him. He’ll be 
there now, I guess.” 

They spoke in hushed tones, as people do in the 
presence of death, and then lapsed into silence, sit- 


THE LAST HOPE 


261 


ting hand-in-hand, as unhappy a pair of lovers as 
could be found in London that night. 

The evening dragged on. Time after time 
Winnie peeped into the bedroom, finding Grace still 
asleep, until just before nine, when Austin had de¬ 
parted to keep his appointment, she returned and 
whispered to Miss Culpepper that Grace had risen 
and was kneeling beside the bed. 

“She is very still, but she’s breathing regularly 
and quietly. Look. I’ve left the door open. 
What ought we to do?” 

“Don’t disturb her for a few minutes anyhow,” 
Miss Culpepper counselled; and again they waited, 
outside the door, whence they could just see the 
kneeling figure, watching and listening intently. 

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed and 
struck nine. At the sound Grace raised her head, 
then bowed it again. 

Slowly the minutes passed, each, to those dis¬ 
tressed watchers, seeming like an hour. A quarter 
past nine—half-past nine ! 

“I think we ought to rouse her now,” Winnie 
whispered anxiously. “She will be quite numb and 
cramped—if she hasn’t fainted!” 

As she spoke the telephone bell sounded—a 
startling summons in that hushed place. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE NINTH HOUR 

S ILENTLY, and with his accustomed efficiency, 
Thomson moved about the boudoir rearrang¬ 
ing some of the furniture. In the centre he 
placed the largest of the beautiful ormolu tables, 
set round it several of the gilt Louis-Seize chairs, 
leaving a clear space at the side that faced Lady 
Rawson’s portrait; and finally put pens, ink, and 
paper before each chair. That done he made up 
the fire, looked round the room as if to assure him¬ 
self that all was in order, and departed, going first 
to his own room. There he unlocked a drawer, 
took out an old cigar : box, glanced at the contents, 
and, with the box under his arm, went through to 
his master’s bedroom. 

Sir Robert was in bed and sound asleep. He had 
become restless and feverish after the departure of 
Grace Carling and Austin Starr, and Thomson had 
taken upon himself to ring up the doctor, who came 
round at once, ordered the patient to bed, and ad¬ 
ministered an opiate, which took effect immediately. 

Thomson stood for a minute or so looking at his 
master’s face, stern even in sleep, then slightly 
opened the outer door so that he could hear anyone 
ascending the staircase, and seated himself near, 
where he could still watch the invalid. 

Presently he heard the sounds for which he 
262 


THE NINTH HOUR 


263 


listened—a knock and ring at the front door, soft 
footsteps outside, and glanced at the clock. Ten 
minutes to nine. He did not move, but still waited 
and listened. 

Jenkins, the butler, acting on the very explicit 
instructions he had received, took the visitor up to 
the boudoir. He was none other than the Home 
Secretary, Gerald Lorimer—a tall, thin, aristocratic- 
looking man, with alert, clean-cut face. 

He glanced round the room with an air of sur¬ 
prise, sniffed disapproval of the heavy perfume¬ 
laden atmosphere, and asked quickly: 

“Where is Sir Robert?” 

“In bed, sir; he has unfortunately been taken 
worse. Will you take a seat, sir; the other gentle¬ 
men will be here directly.” 

“Other? Why, who is coming?” 

“Lord Warrington, for one, sir; and, if you’ll 
excuse me, I think I hear his lordship arriving.” 

Lord Warrington it was who entered next, and 
the two greeted each other with mutual amazement. 

“What’s up now, Warrington? I hear Sir Rob¬ 
ert’s ill.” 

“So I hear; but he rang me up, or, rather, that 
invaluable factotum of his did so, and said Sir 
Robert begged me to come here at nine to-night on 
a most urgent matter, so I came of course.” 

“Same here—precisely the same message. 
Looks as if it were to be a sort of board meeting. 
Is it about Carling? Poor chap! Personally, I 
wish it had been possible to save him, but that’s im¬ 
possible, in the face of the evidence, and that 
verdict,” 


264 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“I suppose so,” Lord Warrington assented 
gravely. “It’s an awful tragedy—a brilliant 
youngster like that! And you know, Lorimer, if 
ever homicide was justifiable, that was—from our 
point of view. He ought to have been rewarded 
rather than punished! For if she ”—he frowned 
up at the portrait—“had passed on those papers— 
whew!—Rawson himself never actually saw them, 
doesn’t know their contents to this day. If he did 
he’d think as I do, even though his own wife was 
the victim—as she was the thief, confound her! I 
say, this room’s pretty weird, what? Damn those 
flowers, they smell like death!” 

“Here’s Cummings-Browne. So it is about Carl¬ 
ing,” said Lorimer, and stalked towards the new¬ 
comer, his old friend since the days when they were 
both briefless barristers sharing chambers in the 
Temple. “Look here, old man, if you arranged 
this conference, or whatever it is, in the hope of get¬ 
ting a reprieve for Carling, you must know as well 
as I do that it’s absolutely useless.” 

“I know nothing about any conference, and never 
expected to meet you here, Lorimer, or you, Lord 
Warrington. I had an urgent message from 
Rawson.” 

“As we did; but why on earth he sent for us we 
can’t imagine, unless there is something fresh about 
Carling.” 

“I hope there may be. If he’s hanged to-morrow 
you’ll be responsible for a frightful miscarriage of 
justice, Lorimer!” said Cummings-Browne. 

“Oh, come now! You put up a magnificent fight 


THE NINTH HOUR 


265 


for him at the trial and since, but you don’t—you 
can’t—personally believe he is innocent?” 

“You are wrong for once. I am absolutely con¬ 
vinced in my own mind that he is innocent—was 
convinced almost from the first. It’s the most diffi¬ 
cult, the most baffling case I’ve ever had!” 

Lorimer looked at him perplexedly, but made no 
further comment, for Jenkins announced, “Mr. Aus¬ 
tin Starr and Mr. Snell,” and the two entered. 
They had arrived together, and exchanged mur¬ 
mured questions as they came up. 

Cummings-Browne greeted Austin, Lorimer nod¬ 
ded to Snell with the question: 

“Anything fresh, Mr. Snell?” 

“Not that I know of, sir.” 

“But what are we all supposed to be here for?” 
Lord Warrington demanded. 

“I beg your pardon, my lord. If you and the 
other gentlemen will kindly be seated I will explain,” 
said a quiet voice. 

Lord Warrington turned sharply, so did the 
others, and stared at Thomson, who had entered 
silently, through the inner doors that led to the 
Chinese Room. He was carrying the cigar-box 
carefully in both hands, and looked pale, but other¬ 
wise self-possessed as usual. 

“What is the meaning of all this? Why has 
Sir Robert sent for us?” asked Warrington im¬ 
peratively. 

“If you and the gentlemen will be seated, my 
lord, I will explain at once,” Thomson repeated, 
advancing to the table and depositing the box on it. 


266 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


There was something so curiously compelling in his 
formal, respectful manner that they actually com¬ 
plied—Lord Warrington taking the head of the 
table, the Home Secretary facing him, Cummings- 
Browne opposite Thomson. Snell slipped round 
and took the chair beside Thomson, on his right 
hand, and, sitting sideways, watched him closely. 
Austin was on his left. 

Thomson stood erect, looking down at the cigar- 
box, on which his right hand rested lightly. They 
all looked at him expectantly, a scrutiny which he 
seemed to disregard entirely. 

“It was I who took the liberty in my master’s 
name of asking you, my lord, and the other gentle¬ 
men to come here to-night,” he said slowly, as if 
weighing every word before he spoke. “And when 
you have heard my explanation you will know that 
the matter was urgent—a matter of life and death; 
and also the importance that what I have to say 
should be written down. The materials are before 
you. 

“It was I who killed my lady!” 

If a bomb had exploded in their midst it could 
scarcely have created a greater mental sensation 
than those seven quietly uttered words. There was 
a low-voiced chorus of exclamation from his as¬ 
tounded listeners, which he heard unmoved, never 
raising his eyes from the cigar-box: then Cummings- 
Browne’s stern voice, 

“Go on. Tell us everything.” 

Thomson looked up then, met Cummings- 
Browne’s eyes full and steadily, and thenceforth 
addressed himself to him direct. 


THE NINTH HOUR 


267 


“I will, sir—from the beginning. On that morn¬ 
ing when the papers were missing from Sir Robert’s 
safe I was awake very early—I often am. At that 
time I slept in the basement: it is only since that 
date and Sir Robert’s illness that I have occupied a 
room on this floor. I thought I heard a sound in 
the library just above. Later I had reason to be¬ 
lieve it was the sliding of the panel that concealed 
the safe-” 

“What time was this?” 

“Just after five, sir. I had heard the clock 
strike. I went out and along to the foot of the 
stairs in the dark and then saw there was a light in 
the hall. Thinking there might be burglars, I felt 
in a stand that is there in the lower hall, took a 
thick stick, and went softly up the stairs. Just as 
I got to the top I saw my lady, in a green dressing- 
robe, pass up the stairs, and a moment later the 
light went out—there is a control switch on the first 
floor. I went back to bed, thinking my lady had 
been down for a book. 

“It was not till the middle of the morning, nearly 
noon, that Sir Robert sent for me to the library and 
told me some papers were missing. Mr. Carling 
was there and they were both very upset—very up¬ 
set indeed.” 

“Did you tell Sir Robert what you had seen?” 

“No, sir. I realize now that I ought to have 
done so, but at the moment I didn’t like to. Sir 
Robert told me not to say anything to anyone, and 
I did not. I went down and thought it over. I 
felt sure in my mind that my lady had the papers, 
whatever they were. I knew she was out—she had 



268 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


gone out about ten o’clock—so was her maid, 
Mam’selle Perier, who had been given the day out. 
I wondered if my lady had gone to Rivercourt 
Mansions.” 

“How do you know she was in the habit of going 
there ?” 

“I had known it a long time, sir. I discovered 
the address almost by chance, from a letter.” 

“Blotting paper?” asked Cummings-Browne 
dryly. 

“Well, yes, sir. My lady was careless once or 
twice that way, though it was only the address I 
could make out. I believe she was always very 
careful to post those private letters herself.” 

“And you had tracked her to the place?” 

“Yes, sir, a good many times—usually at night. 
I nearly always knew when she was going; it would 
be on Mam’selle Perier’s evening out, or when my 
lady sent her to a theatre, as she often did.” 

“Well, go on.” 

“I found out quite a lot one way and another 
about Mr. Melikoff and the Russians who used to 
go there, and the old Italian gentleman. It wasn’t 
my business, of course, and I don’t quite know why 
I did it, for I had no real grudge against my lady, 
except that I knew how my master doted on her, so 
to speak, and I felt she was not doing the right 
thing by him. 

“And now I made up my mind all in a moment to 
go there and see if I could find out anything. I 
didn’t ask Sir Robert. I thought I would risk him 
missing me, as I’d often done before, and it wasn’t 
necessary for me to tell Mr. Jenkins or anyone 


THE NINTH HOUR 


269 


else. I took the train, and just got to the corner 
of the square when, sure enough, I saw my lady her¬ 
self cross the road to go into that post office. I 
knew it quite well, having been in and out several 
times when I’d happened to he in the neigh¬ 
bourhood. 

“I followed her sharp, and peeped in. My lady 
was standing at the counter, and there was no one 
else in the shop but the person behind it, who had 
her back turned getting a telephone call. I went 
straight through—neither of them saw or heard 
me—passed the telephone-booth and turned to the 
right by the foot of some stairs and the side door. 
There was another door farther on half open, lead¬ 
ing into a scullery.” 

Cummings-Browne nodded. He knew—so did 
Snell—how accurate the description was to the last 
detail. 

“I don’t quite know what I meant to do. I think 
it was to snatch her bag as she went into the booth 
and make a run for it. But—I had this in my 
pocket.” 

He opened the cigar-box, took out an article that 
looked like the haft of a small dagger, of some dull 
metal elaborately chased, and held it up to view. 
There was a click, and out of the haft sprang a 
slender, vicious-looking little blade, some four 
inches long. Snell involuntarily put out his hand 
as if to seize Thomson’s arm, but the latter, having 
exhibited the weapon, pressed the spring again, 
causing the blade to disappear, and laid the thing 
on the table. 

“I bought it off a sailor years ago in Constanti- 


270 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


nople, when I was there with my master, and he 
used to go about so reckless by himself in places that 
weren’t safe for an English gentleman that often I 
followed him, with this as a sort of protection, but I 
never had to use it—never did use it but the once! 

“I don’t know what came over me all in a mo¬ 
ment. When my lady had gone into the telephone- 
booth I found I’d got the dagger in my hand. I 
opened the door, struck at her, and snatched the 
bag that was resting on the little sloping shelf under 
the instrument. She only made a little gurgling 
sound and dropped forward. I shut the door on 
her and went through to the scullery and pushed to 
the door. The whole thing couldn’t have taken 
half a minute, and I was just in time, for I heard 
someone come along to the stairs and call ‘Jessie!’ 
There was a wet rag on the scullery table—the place 
didn’t seem to be used much for anything but rub¬ 
bish: there was a heap of waste paper and boxes in 
the corner. While I waited I wiped my glove on 
the rag and took it off; here they both are. I’ve 
never cleaned them.” 

He took a neatly folded pair of tan gloves out of 
the cigar-box and laid them on the table. 

“I opened the bag, found the big envelope ad¬ 
dressed to Sir Robert just as Mr. Carling had said, 
and knew the papers must be inside, but didn’t try 
to look at them. I also found this key and this 
little box, and put them in my pocket.” 

He took out a Yale latchkey and a small ornate 
powder box of gold set with jewels, and placed these 
beside the other articles. 

“I saw through the window a taxicab standing 


THE NINTH HOUR 


271 


before the side door. There was no one at all in 
sight, so I listened for a minute—by the sound there 
were several people in the shop—then went out at 
the side door, put the bag through the cab window, 
walked away, slipping the envelope into the post 
box at the corner. Then I walked to the station, 
got a train at once—I had taken a return ticket— 
and was back here soon after two. I had only been 
away just over an hour, and so far as I know I had 
never been missed. 

“I found my dinner on a tray in my room—I have 
always had my meals in my own room—and I sat 
down and ate it.” 

“Ate his dinner! Good heavens!” muttered 
Lord Warrington. The others were silent, Austin 
Starr, an expert stenographer, was taking down the 
confession verbatim; the Home Secretary and 
Cummings-Browne making occasional notes; Snell 
maintained his ceaseless vigilance. 

“I had just finished when Sir Robert’s bell rang 
for me. I went up to the library and found him 
and Mr. Snell there. Sir Robert again questioned 
me about the papers, and while he was speaking the 
news came by telephone that my lady had been mur¬ 
dered, and my master fell down in a fit. 

“That’s about all it’s necessary to tell, I think, 
though if I might be permitted to say a few words 
more—about this key, and something else-” 

“Go on; say all you have to say,” Cummings- 
Browne responded. 

“Thank you, sir. I knew this key wasn’t one of 
ours—of this house—and I thought it just possible 
it might be the key to Mr. Melikoff’s flat. I knew, 



272 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


too, that my lady had written him a lot of letters 
first and last, and that if they should ever be found 
they might raise a scandal that would add to Sir 
Robert’s trouble, and I made up my mind to try 
and get hold of these. It was some time before I 
got the opportunity—it was a risky thing to do, of 
course. But the day that Mr. Carling was com¬ 
mitted for trial I managed it. I knew the whole 
household was in the police court—I saw them there 
when I was in the witness-box in the morning—and 
in the late afternoon I went to the flat, and sure 
enough the key fitted. I had a look round just to 
take my bearings, found Mr. Melikoff’s room— 
there was a photo of my lady on his writing-table— 
and found the letters in a drawer of it. I was just 
about to go when they all came back; I’d run it a 
bit too close! I slipped into a room opposite Mr. 
Melikoff’s—a bare room, that looked like a school¬ 
room with very little in it except a piano and music- 
stands—and bolted the door. I thought, and so 
it turned out, that it wouldn’t be used at night. 
Hours and hours I waited there in the dark and 
cold before it seemed safe to try and get out. 

“At last I ventured, and when I got into the hall, 
where the light was on, I saw the drawing-room 
door was ajar; there was a curtain inside, so I 
couldn’t see in.” 

“But the door had been closed!” ejaculated Aus¬ 
tin Starr. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Starr, I assure you it 
was open then, just an inch or two, and I heard 
voices inside—your voice, sir, and a lady’s, and you 
yyere talking about Lady Rawson. Dangerous as 


THE NINTH HOUR 


273 


it was I couldn’t help listening for a minute; then I 
turned off the hall light and slipped off, closing the 
front door quietly with the key, and got away all 
right. Here are the letters. 

“One word more, my lord and gentlemen. It 
was a terrible shock to me when Mr. Carling was 
accused, and I never believed they’d find him guilty, 
and right up to to-day I hoped he would be re¬ 
prieved, so that it mightn’t be necessary for me to 
own up just yet. If my master had died I would 
have owned up at once; but I did hope I should be 
able to tend him as long as he needed me—and he 
needs me more now than he ever did before.” 

For the first time his voice faltered, and he 
leaned with both hands on the table, as if for sup¬ 
port. Snell half rose, but sat down again as Thom¬ 
son recovered himself and resumed: 

“It would be very kind if you could keep the truth 
from Sir Robert, for a bit anyhow—if you could 
tell him I’d been taken ill. And Mr. Carling will 
be safe—he’ll soon be released now, won’t he, sir?” 
He looked at the Home Secretary, and from him to 
Lord Warrington. “And you’ll excuse the liberty I 
took in sending for you all. I wouldn’t leave noth¬ 
ing to chance, so to speak. And now, Mr. Snell, 
I’m quite ready for you, and I’ll go quiet, of course, 
though I suppose you’ll want to put on the hand¬ 
cuffs, if you’ve got them with you?” 

They all rose, and Thomson, respectful to the 
last, stepped back and stood, with Snell close beside 
him, as if the buzz of low-toned, agitated conversa¬ 
tion among the others did not concern him in the 
least. 


274 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


Austin Starr unceremoniously clutched Lorimer’s 
arm. 

“Say, Mr. Home Secretary, this does it! Roger 
Carling’s saved? You’ll put the order for his re¬ 
lease through right now?” 

“It will have to be ‘the King’s pardon,’ of course, 
and it will be put through at the earliest possible 
moment. Thank God that—that extraordinary old 
villain confessed to-night!” 

“When will Roger be home?” 

“That I cannot say at the moment—possibly to¬ 
morrow.” 

“I may ’phone right now to his poor young wife?” 

“Assuredly; and I will telephone to her myself 
later.” 

Austin glanced round the room. A telephone 
was there, but concealed under a tall Sevres china 
doll gorgeously arrayed in Louis-Seize court cos¬ 
tume, and he couldn’t see it. Downstairs he 
dashed, and seized the instrument in the hall. 

“Victoria ten-four-double-three, quick please! 
That you, Grace? Austin speaking. Oh, my dear 
girl, it’s all right! Roger’s saved—cleared! He’ll 
be home as soon as ever the Home Secretary can fix 
it. Old Thomson’s confessed everything right now. 
It was he who murdered Lady Rawson!” 


CHAPTER XXVII 
INTO THE LIGHT 

A T Argeles in the Pyrenees—where already 
the sheltered valleys were glorious with 
spring blossoms, where the snow moun¬ 
tains shone dazzling under the strong sunshine 
against the deep blue of the sky, and the air was 
exhilarating as champagne—Roger and Grace Carl¬ 
ing finished and prolonged the honeymoon that had 
been so tragically interrupted. 

They left England as soon as possible after 
Roger’s release, which created even more sensation 
than his trial and condemnation had done, and here 
in this idyllic retreat, where they were quite un¬ 
known, these two lovers, who had gone together 
through the very valley of the shadow of death, in 
which all seemed lost, save love, rejoiced in the sun¬ 
shine, and in each other, restored as if by a miracle 
to life and hope and youth. 

Miss Culpepper, at her own desire, remained in 
charge of the little flat until they should return. 
The staunch little woman’s joy at Roger’s vindica¬ 
tion—“vitiation” was her word for it—was very 
little affected by the knowledge that Thomson 
was the criminal; in fact, she accepted it quite 
philosophically. 

“It’s terrible to think James should have done 
275 


276 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


such a deed, but I don’t think I am really surprised 
after all. I saw a great change in him when he 
came here on Christmas day, as I think I told you, 
my dear. It was something—oh, I don’t know how 
to describe it in English—something mecompte — 
that means sinister, you know—that I didn’t like at 
all. I shall never again wear that brooch he gave 
me!” 

The day before they left England Roger had a 
message from Sir Robert, begging him to go to see 
him. He did so and found the old man still in bed, 
very frail and broken. 

“Can you ever forgive me, Roger?” he asked 
piteously, clinging to Roger’s hands and searching 
his worn face with anxious, haggard eyes. 

“There’s nothing to forgive, sir. Things looked 
so very black against me, it was only natural that 
you should have thought as you did; and I know 
how that belief must have added to your grief and 
distress.” 

“I shall never forgive myself. I ought to have 
known you better, my boy. And to think that it 
should have been Thomson, of all people in the 
world—after all these years I have trusted him! 
Well, well, it’s a strange and terrible world; but I 
shall soon be done with it. I shall never see you 
again, Roger; but while I do last—I hope it won’t 
be many weeks—you’ll never be out of my mind. 
You’ll come back, with your dear young wife—ask 
her to forgive me too—and take up your career. 
It will be a brilliant one. I think I’ve been able to 
ensure that you will have your chance, and I know 


INTO THE LIGHT 


277 


how great your abilities are! Have you seen War¬ 
rington yet?” 

“Yes, I’ve just come from him. He was kind¬ 
ness itself, and has offered me an excellent post; I 
am to take up my duties after Easter. He told me 
what you said about me, Sir Robert. It was very 
good of you!” 

“Good! It was the bare truth, and the very 
least I could do to make some amends. I shall 
make more amends, as you’ll know in time, Roger. 
Good-bye, my dear boy, good-bye. In time per¬ 
haps—Time is always the great healer—you will be 
able to forget as well as to forgive!” 

Roger never saw him again. Next week news of 
his death reached them at Argeles, and later tidings 
that he had bequeathed to them both ten thousand 
pounds, and to Roger the greater part of his superb 
library. 

Towards the end of Easter week, Austin and 
Winnie unexpectedly turned up at Argeles, also on 
their honeymoon, having been quietly married 
on the previous Tuesday. “Nobody there but 
George, and a dear fat old pew-opener,” Winnie 
announced gleefully. “And we decided we must 
come and have a peep at you two. Can’t we all go 
back together next week as far as Paris? Then 
we’re off to the States, via Havre.” 

“That’s so, but only for a few months. We 
shall come back to London in the fall,” said Austin. 
“Say, Roger, have you seen any New York papers?” 

“Not I, and very few others. We’ve almost for¬ 
gotten, here, that the Press exists!” 


278 THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


“I guess so. But you may be interested to hear 
that Cacciola’s first concert—Melikoff’s debut— 
was an immense success. Melikoff got right 
there—a regular furore; the critics are just about 
raving over him and Miss Maddelena—or Mrs. 
Melikoff as I suppose she is by this time, for they’re 
to be married this week. Won’t she mother him— 
some; keep a tight hand over him, too, I guess.” 

Later, when Austin and he were alone together, 
Roger asked for news of Thomson. 

“I meant to tell you, though not while Grace was 
here. You know he was certified as insane and un¬ 
able to plead, and so was consigned to Broadmoor?” 

Roger nodded. 

“Well, I got permission to go and see him last 
week. He’s mad, right enough, but only on the one 
point, that he seems to have forgotten everything 
about the murder, and thinks he is still in Sir Rob¬ 
ert’s service; but on every other point he appears as 
sane as you or me. He’s a model prisoner, gives 
no trouble, and devotes himself to a fellow-criminal 
—patient I suppose one might say—whom he be¬ 
lieves to be Sir Robert, an old man who really does 
resemble him, white beard and all. He waits on 
him hand and foot, and they tell me he’s always 
miserable when he’s out of his sight! He knew 
me well enough and seemed glad to see me. 

“ ‘I take it very kind of you to come, Mr. Starr,’ 
he said. ‘We’re fairly comfortable here, though 
it’s not what Sir Robert has been used to, of course; 
but he’s much better—very much better. May I 
ask if you’ve seen Mr. Carling lately?’ ” 

“I said I hadn’t—that you and Mrs. Carling 


INTO THE LIGHT 


279 


were abroad, but I should probably be seeing you 
soon, and he answered: 

“ ‘If you do, sir, perhaps you’ll give them my 
best respects and good wishes. A very nice gentle¬ 
man is Mr. Carling. My master misses him greatly 
and will be glad to see him back.’ 

“Then he said something that I couldn’t make 
sense of; perhaps you can? Would I ask Mrs. 
Carling to tell little Maria that he did write to her 
more than once, and she never answered, so that it 
really wasn’t his fault. Do you know what he 
meant?” 

“Yes. Grace told me. Maria’s our little Miss 
Culpepper. They were in service together, and 
more or less in love with each other years ago, but 
somehow drifted apart and only met the day old 
Thomson came round and insisted on lending five 
hundred pounds of his savings for my defence. Oh, 
of course that’s news to you; I forgot he enjoined 
Grace to secrecy.” 

“He did that! Well, he’s the most extraor¬ 
dinary case I’ve ever struck! I wonder whether he 
really is mad, or only consummately clever? Any¬ 
how, I’m convinced that when he killed Lady Raw- 
son he did it with no more animus—and no more 
compunction—than I’d kill a ’squito!” 

Roger made a warning gesture. 

“Hush, here are the girls. Don’t speak of him 
before Grace!” 

Later from the balcony he and Grace watched 
these two loyal friends go down the road to their 
hotel, and stood there long after the sound of their 


280 


THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY 


footsteps had died away. Roger’s arm was round 
his wife, her dear head rested on his shoulder. 

It was a beautiful evening, with a full moon 
flooding the valley and the towering snow moun¬ 
tains beyond with almost unearthly radiance, and no 
sound but the murmur of the river and the light 
breeze stirring the young leaves and white “candles” 
of the chestnuts. 

London and the great busy world—all the 
tragedies and the shadows of the past—seemed 
very far away! 


THE END 










































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